


Blind Man's Bluff

by TanninTele



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Cross-Generational Friendship, Detectives, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Murder, Police, Servants, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 20:05:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14552529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TanninTele/pseuds/TanninTele
Summary: When Tom Riddle was (mistakenly) hired by the Malfoy family to solve a case of stolen silverware, he expected it to be cut-and-dry; 'the butler did it'. Upon arrival, however, it is revealed that a murder had taken place during the night.In a house full of strange individuals, including a somber houseman, a spoiled son and a suspicious maid, Tom must distinguish who is a thief and who is capable of murder.After all, it takes one to know one.





	1. Prologue

_**Blind Man's Bluff** _

**TanninTele**

* * *

  _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 _**Prologue**_  

_A boy dripping in guilt_

_commits his first crime._

_But if he_ _stares into the mirror_

_he'll see his father one last time._

* * *

  **Dursley Drive**

* * *

The water was scalding hot, the grayish soap bubbles making it seem polluted.

Fearful, young Harold Potter writhed in his Aunt's arms, his naked body pushing against the woman behind him. "Get in," Petunia hissed, sweeping up his legs and dunking him into the bath. Head going under, Harry's ears went deaf as the claustrophobic pressure surrounded him. He came back to the surface with a gasp, coughing up water.

A rough hand scrubbed a rag across his front, removing the grime and sweat covering his skin.  "Auntie," Harry rasped. "It hurts. Please stop."

Harry was unaccustomed to this sort of aggression from his mother's sister. Most days, Petunia could barely touch his skin, as if revolted by the welts and discolored bruises marring that small body. Whenever the stench was too much to bear, Petunia just stuck him under the cold hose, gave him a bar of old soap and set a timer for five minutes.

"This isn't my fault," she said unsympathetically, bringing the rag to his back. "You shouldn't have angered Vernon so." Dried blood flaked off the long wounds on his back. Harry began to breath heavily in and out of his nostrils, grasping at the sides of the bath. Without warning, Petunia once more ducked his head underwater. She lathered his hair painfully, Harry's neck pulsing with stretched muscles and blue-tinted veins.

Petunia finished cleaning behind his ears and dropped the rag onto his lap. She snapped, "Clean yourself," and swiftly stood. She clicked out of the bathroom, the damp hem of her petticoat sticking to the back of her thighs. The boy mechanically patted between his legs, the heated water stinging the tender skin of his privates. Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, mixing with the streaks of water falling like dew drops down his cheekbones.

Harry lifted his head as Petunia reentered, a black comb in hand and a set of clothing draped over her shoulder. A feeling of dread lingered in the bottom of his stomach - or perhaps that was the hollow pain that came from missing both lunch and breakfast.

"Out," she commanded, leaning down to grab a folded towel. All too eager to comply, Harry scrambled out of the copper bowl.

Petunia swiftly and efficiently towel-dried his hair, the strands sticking up haphazardly above his scalp. Harry was steered toward the sink where a short stool waited for him. He hopped atop it and allowed her to drag a comb through his tangles, the blades scraping against his scalp in a decidedly unpleasant manner. "What - " Harry gritted his teeth. "What's this for, Auntie?"

It was very brave of him to ask this when Petunia was in such a foul mood. But it was also a clever tactic of the thirteen year old; it was when his aunt was ruffled and distracted that Petunia's twisted mouth spilled the most lurid secrets.  "We're finally getting rid of you, freak. Vernon has found a man that will take you far, far away," glee tinged her voice. A deep wave of cold swept over Harry, goosebumps swarming to his skin.

"You're to be sold off - and good riddance, that! It's a godsend, but the only way anyone will want you is if you clean up a bit." Petunia tsked at the belt marks Uncle Vernon had left on his back. "I do wish Vernon hadn't punished you so hard. No one ever wants damaged goods."

Harry's breath caught with fear. He hardly noticed as Petunia fitted him into one of Dudley's frocks and a pair of trousers, the faded material scratchy and warm. "There you go, lad," she rolled up the sleeves of the coat, revealing his skeletal wrists. "A little green to match your eyes."

Harry blinked at the peculiar softness to her voice. 

Before his mind could catch up to the motion, she quickly wrapped a stock around his neck, choking him tightly.

* * *

The trolley rattling beneath his bum, Harry sat stiffly next to his Uncle.

The large man was dressed in a tight-fitting waistcoat, his mustache trimmed into a bushy curl. Vernon was humming idly to himself, eyes lit up with inner excitement. Harry's thoughts were running rampant as yet another day went past, the shimmering sun disappearing into the horizon outside the carriage window. "Nearly there," grinned the driver, his sharp front teeth bared. He snapped the whip at the two horses pulling them along, their behinds tensing. Harry flinched at the sound. A heavy hand lowered onto his shoulder, squeezing tightly. Too tightly.

"Ready, boy?"  

Perhaps Harry _would_ be ready if he had any idea where they were going. Harry lowered his head, allowing his fringe to fall into his eyes. "Yes, Uncle."

The trolley rumbled, the horses clomping their shoes in irritation. They were in the city, the trees sparse. Farther down the road, Harry caught sight of an imposing edifice, tall and imposing against the grey skies. They rolled through the front gates, Vernon's smile widening. A band of colored children were being shuffled inside, their wrists clasped together by clinking chains, their clothing in rags.

His eyes widened in realization.

Harry reached toward the door handle as though he could make a break for it - but sweaty, sausage-like fingers grabbed him by the chin. His head was aimed toward a young girl being carried over a man's shoulder, her screams muffled by an old rag shoved into her mouth. The man threw her roughly to the ground. A bandage on her stomach split open, her light blue dress staining with red.

"Don't let that be you," Vernon hissed into his ear, letting go just as the trolley halted. Without another word, Vernon clutched his arm and pulled Harry toward the hoard. Leers followed them the entire way and Harry fought the urge to cover his face with his coat collar. When they reached the doors, a man with a cigar stuffed between his dry lips spoke to Vernon in a low, gruff tone. Harry was distracted by a small girl in ripped stockings. She was allowing herself to be handed off to a slimy-looking man, her father greedily fondling a bag-full of coins.

"You'll be going to be sold off with the other foundlings," Vernon nudged him toward the cigar-man. "Don't argue with Burke, freak; you won't like the consequences." His Uncle handed the man a scroll of papers and tipped his hat in farewell.

Harry stared up balefully at his new companion. The man's sharp grey eyes seemed to judge Harry on his worth, finding him completely and utterly lacking. Harry's gaze flickered to the iron blade at the man's hip, the point glinting dangerously.  

"Follow me," the man snapped, jerking his head toward the crowded hall. Inside the building, the air was warm and humid. There was a soft cacophony of voices, prices being called out and negotiations being made. A number of girls were shoved onto a wooden platform, sickly, sweaty complexions illuminated by the sunlight streaming in through a large window.

"Take your top off!" Someone jeered. A red-haired girl shakily untied her smock, revealing her breasts, scarred by pink teeth-marks, the nipples red and swollen. She determinedly kept her chin up.

Both horrified and disgusted by this auction, Harry closed his eyes tightly, allowing himself to be led by the wrist.

"Borgin!" Burke shouted. 

A stooped man jerked away, his hand slipping out from beneath a young girl's skirt. She darted fearful eyes at Harry, begging for help. Borgin was a man with grey, oily hair and a wart on his chin that seemed quite worrying. "Burke," he grunted. Clearly, the man was none-to-happy to be interrupted. "This the Dursley kid?" 

"Yes," Burke pushed Harry forward with a shark-toothed grin. "Rather itty-bitty, isn't he?"

Borgin appraised him briefly. "Not made for grunt work, then. Catamite?"

Burke lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "Just place him with the young'uns. His contractor will determine his worth as they please."

The word _contractor_ bounced around the thirteen-year-old's head with a terrifying ferocity. Shock racing through him, Harry allowed himself to be led into another room. He was told to strip to his underthings and considered disobeying. Burke placed a warning hand on the dagger at  his hip, and Harry complied without a word. Soon, Burke disappeared, and two women took his place. The first was grey-haired and hunched, wearing all white like a nurse.

"What is your name, dear?" she asked tiredly, unrolling a scroll and jotting down a few notes.

Harry was quiet. The blue-eyed woman sighed. She used the vane of her quill to lift his chin. "Don't make me call Burke back, dear," she said, not unkindly. "If fortune has it, you'll be out of here and in a nice, warm manor by nightfall. Just play along for now, hmm? My name is Madam Pomfrey, and this is Madam Malkin." The other woman, slightly pudgy and dressed in all purple, said naught a word, removing a tape measure from around her neck.

"H - Harry Potter," he rasped. 

Madam Pomfrey smiled encouragingly. "So you're not mute. That's very good. Are you literate?"

Harry nodded and was told to sign the bottom of her parchment. He trembled faintly as Pomfrey's companion prodded at his ribs. She tsked beneath her breath, and gestured toward Pomfrey. The nurse took one look at his scarred back and furrowed her brow. "What are these from?"

"M - my uncle."

The two women exchanged a glance. "What's your pain tolerance?"

Harry blinked at them. "Pardon?"

"What do you _do_ when you're being punished?"

"Thrashed? I don't know," Harry said truthfully. "I suppose I build a cupboard in my head, where it's dark and quiet. I don't feel anything. Not pain. Or hunger. Or anger." 

Pomfrey wrote a note on the papers and gestured for Malkin to continue. Malkin began to measure his waistline. Harry was bewildered - it wasn't as though he was buying clothing. Pomfrey noticed his confusion. "It's for your contractor. Most of Borgin's buyers are from Noble Houses. Their servants must be presentable, and are often gifted with fine uniforms. It's not such a bad life, dear."

"B - Borgin said I may be a c . . . catamite? I don't know what that means."

Malkin stiffened, her spine cracking. She was half-way stooped, measuring the bare roundness of his thighs. "They will not," Malkin spoke for the first time, her voice low and soft. "You are too young for such a burden."

The nurse sent her a strange look. "Borgin and Burke will do as they please," she said softly. 

"What?" Harry looked between the two of them, worry marring his sweet countenance.

Malkin stood fully, shaking her head. "Never you mind. It is not something to concern little children," she patted his hand absentmindedly and wound up her tape measure. "I will be speaking to Borgin about this. What our husbands have done now - " she shook her head.

 _Husbands?_ Harry shot betrayed eyes at Pomfrey.

The woman grimaced, placing her hands on his shoulders. He sat down heavily. The woman checked his teeth and pinched at his skin, tsking. "Slightly malnourished." She removed a syringe from her apron pocket. "Vaccinations," she searched for a vein in his arm. "If it wasn't for Malkin and I, young'uns like you would never receive the care they need before being sent off into _'t_ _he great unknown.'_ "

As Pomfrey pressed the needle beneath his skin, she continued. "You think me as revolting as my husband. Our marriage was not one of love, dear," she sighed, dabbing the slight splotches of blood away. "When I was a young girl, I desired to be a nurse, to heal and to help the poor and the weary. Malkin wished to be a tailor, to drape even the common folk in silk and pearls, to bring beauty to this cruel world," her words were soft and sedative.

"We were married off too soon and neither of us have achieved our dreams. We have accepted this of the world, but you are young yet. Do not let follies of men disable you. Let their words slide off your skin, and take their blows with your head held high," she lifted her own chin, urging him to mimic the action. As he did, the fringe fell from his face, revealing blazing green eyes. 

Pomfrey nodded approvingly, tying her scroll in swift movements. "I have not known you long, but I recognize the strength in you," she stroked his cheek. "Survive, my dear. And perhaps one day, you'll learn how to live."

* * *

Head down, Harry memorized every scuff, every splinter in the wooden platform of the auction block. He stood there, blocking out the jeers and bids of the noblemen, deliberately controlling his breathing. Beside him was a girl with long, scraggly blonde hair. She was pale, pretty, and had fierce brown eyes that bespoke of an inner strength. Still, her fear was universal. She murmured senselessly to herself, wringing the hem of her ragged blue dress. They met eyes for the briefest moment, green against brown, and there was a brief kinship between them.

It was quickly shattered at she was sold, screaming out to him.

Burke grabbed her from behind and dragged her off the block, tossing her into the arms of some tawny-haired man. She sobbed into his shoulder, and he tentatively brushed a hand through her hair. 

Harry flinched as his vision was blocked. "Your turn now, lad," Borgin hissed, grabbing his hand. It was lifted into the air, wrist limp. The numbers came flying out fast and furious, all the while Borgin listing off his attributes. "Literate, strong teeth, virginal - " Harry winced at the last one. "Going once, going twice. Sold to Remus Lupin of the Malfoy Family, nice'ta do business with you again, sir."

Harry was pushed off the platform and a nervous-looking girl took his place. Burke led him away from the crowd to a roped-off section. He plucked Harry's scroll from a grimacing Madame Pomfrey, thumbing through the papers.

"Is everything in order?" came a soft, polite voice. Harry jerked, looking behind him. His contractor had parted from the crowd and crept silently to Harry's side. It was the yellow-haired man from before. The girl he had bought was still in chains, her head bowed and jaw set. 

Burke nodded, narrowing his eyes at the girl. "Better watch that one. She's a biter." He lifted a hand to rub at his ear, which Harry noticed was torn at the lobe. 

Lupin bit back a smirk. A velvet satchel of coins dangled from his hand. "I would like to do this quickly, Burke. My Lord has requested I return by six, and the children will need time to adjust," he smiled tiredly at Harry. Harry lowered his eyes quickly, flushing pink. He knew better than to meet the eyes of his 'betters'. Uncle Vernon had been the type to lash him for the smallest misdemeanor - Harry hoped his new guardian wasn't the same. 

Remus, the man, signed the contract, nodding at the stipulations. Burke took out a ring of keys and removed their chains. The girl clenched her fists, as though resisting swiping her nails at his sneering face. "Come along now," the man said. "Do you have any possessions?" The girl and Harry shook their heads. The man arched a sandy brow, clearly looking for a verbal response.

"No, sir," Harry said. 

"They burned everything when my parents died." The girl spat, voice hollow. "I'm probably contagious, you know? You best throw me out before the consumption gets you." The man merely smiled, indulgent, and started toward a back door. Remus took them to a line of carriages, smacking a hand against the sleek black door. "Ernie, wake up, we're in a hurry." There was a sharp yelp, and a scrawny, speckled jolted up. He sheepishly squeezed outside, stammering his apologies. "Save it for later, Ern," Remus said, gently pushing Harry forward. 

The carriage was sturdy and gleaming, far better in quality than Vernon's, and Harry wondered just how rich his new contractor was. With a crack of a whip, Ernie let out a _"Yah!"_ , and the horse surged forward.

The girl glared out the window, hands clenched in her ratty dress. "Are you well, Nymphadora?" Remus asked her. "Did they treat you decently, there?" 

"Don't call me Nymphadora," she bit out. "And they didn't try to get under my skirt, if that's what you mean. I tore a chunk out of Burke's ear when he tried."

Remus smiled weakly. "Good." 

Harry shifted uncomfortably in place. Attentive to the boy's grimace of pain, Remus pulled out a pair of reading glasses, widening his already piercing hazel eyes. "Old scars," he read from Harry's scroll, murmuring thoughtfully. "And fresh markings. I have salve to help alleviate the irritation," he said, oddly insightful. "I'm certain they are stinging a bit in that woolen tailcoat, hmm?"

Harry gave a jerking nod. "Y- yes, sir. Thank you."

Remus sighed. "I haven't done anything to deserve your thanks, and I doubt I will. It is my obligation as your new 'guardian' to care for your basic needs. However," he leaned forward suddenly, his words hushed. "I assure you, the Malfoy household is much kinder than whatever hellhole you came from. Would you like to speak about it?" 

Harry was quiet for a moment, before sighing. "I was a whipping boy," he rubbed his arms. "For my cousin. My uncle couldn't afford servants, so I did everything. Cooking, cleaning, mending, gardening . . . while my cousin was treated like a k - king," he whispered. "In the eyes of my relatives, Dudley could do no wrong. When he acted out or broke something, I was blamed. I was punished and Dudley would just watch in glee. He never learned any lesson, he just got away with things, and got some entertainment out of it too." 

Nymphadora had been watching him. Her hard features seemed to soften in sympathy. 

"Your family was cruel, child," Remus told him. "But I have worked for Lord Malfoy for several long years. He may be a harsh man, and his wife - Lady Narcissa  _née_ Black a dragon lady, but you'd do well to be grateful." 

Brown eyes narrowed. "Did you say  _'Black'?"_ she murmured. 

"I did," he sent her an odd look. He mistook the disgust in her voice for ungratefulness. "You could just as easily have been sold off to a sex trafficker or a merciless task-maker," Remus warned. "I recommend you make the best out of what you've been given."

Green eyes misted over, forcibly remaining downcast.

"It's not like we have much of a choice either way, do we?" Nymphadora spoke for the both of them.

"No," Remus readily admitted, removing from his pocket a flask of liquor. He took a long swig, his pale, drawn features slackening. "You do not. But the illusion helps."

* * *

_Meanwhile_

**Riddle House**

* * *

Thick trees blew about him, the sun barely visible through the tall branches.

Sticks and leaves crunched under his shoes as seventeen-year old Thomas Riddle followed the moss-covered stones. Blue blossoms could be seen every few yards, swaying above the forest floor. Sinking his hands into his large coat pockets, Tom looked roguish, like a wolf-raised child, back hunched as if prepared to launch himself at the nearest unsuspecting prey. 

Frank Bryce couldn’t have been aware of this danger as he spotted the human-like shadow flickering behind his finely-sheared poplars. 

Hobbling around on his dead leg, Frank watered the flower beds, staring down in pride as his prize lilies. Frank knew every square foot of this lot, from the sun-soaked petunias to the small vegetable farm by the back kitchen entrance. Riddle Manor was an astonishingly large plot, the green grounds spanning several acres and fenced by a deciduous treeline. Weeds were not the only things Frank had to contend with, either.

He didn’t particularly enjoy working for Lord Riddle, as the man was incurably hypercritical and never had a single compliment to offer. After several decades, however, Frank had become used to the master’s aloof and dismissive manner. Working for Lord Riddle had reaped an unhealthy amount of frustration and exhaustion, but the pay was lucrative, the benefits worthy and the garden utterly glorious. Frank kept the yard immaculately trimmed and the flowers blossomed with color three out of four seasons. 

Since the  _incident_ regarding a pathetic townswoman assaulting Lord Riddle, Riddle maintained a strict policy of throwing out any interlopers. Frank knew that not a single man or woman with a semblance of tact would dare trespass on Riddle's property. Social codes such as these had been unanimously and tacitly agreed upon, not even requiring the intervention of Lord Riddle or his lawyers.

It was infuriating, then, to see an interloper drifting idly through the treeline.  

Tucking his lip between his front teeth, Frank let out a sharp whistle. The shrill noise cut over the chatter of locust and Tom stilled immediately. His eyes narrowed onto the towering manor blocking the sun. 

Seeing the lone, slim figure in the distance, Frank came to the conclusion it was some pranking teenager. The man clambered to his feet, and wiped the dirt from his pants. "Out! Your sort isn't allowed here!"

Tom lifted his chin and slowly approached the groundskeeper. "Pardon for the interruption," he gave a slow smile. "Do you work in the gardens?"

"That I do," the man allowed. "But we don't take no solicitors."  

The handsome seventeen-year old shook his head. "I'm no solicitor. I've business here. Leave these grounds before you become a nuisance."

"Who are you?” Frank said defiantly. “You're trespassin' on private property, an' I don't take well to threats."

Tom stared the man up and down. "A military man, yes? Then you know the advantages of self preservation. Utilize it. This is my last warning."

"L - let me tell you," the man growled. “My wife knows I’m out here, and if I don’t come back —”

“You have no wife,” Tom spoke very quietly. The man's wrinkled, calloused hands were bereft of a ring. “Nobody cares about you. The Riddles certainly wouldn't notice if you died peacefully in your sleep, or if your mangled body was left in a rose bush. Do not _lie_ to me."

“Is that right?” Frank tore out his hand shovel and brandished it wildly. “You're just some belligerent little boy!" 

Tom stepped into the sunlight.  "Surely you recognize me by now? Even a little?"

Frank's brow furrowed. He paled quite suddenly. "You - you look like - Lord Thomas Riddle, but that's - "

"Lord Riddle; I quite like the sound of that," the man purred. "Though it does get confusing when the last four Riddle heirs were named Thomas, hmm? One _distinguishing_ difference between myself and my predecessors is that _I_ wasn't raised with a silver spoon in my mouth.  _I_ will be the Riddle to outlast them all." 

"Well, I don’t care who you are, but you aren't going to be threatening me!"

"They're not merely threats, old man," Tom said lowly. "Say goodbye to your roses." 

Frank opened his mouth in indigence but didn't have time to speak. Without another word, Tom stepped forward, wrapped his arm around Bryce's neck, and  _wrenched._  Frank Bryce crumpled.

He was dead before he hit the grassy floor. Tom bent down and untied the man's shoelaces, moving the hand shovel from his hand beside his head. 

By all means, it appeared that Frank had been the victim of a horrid fall.

The hunt was almost over. 

_One down, two to go._

* * *

_**To be continued . . .** _


	2. Bonnet of Red

_**Blind Man's Bluff** _

**TanninTele**

* * *

  _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**_I:_ **

_The maid is pushing daisies,_

_she wears a bonnet of red._

_Her ring's gone missing_

_and her fiancé left unwed._

* * *

_Four Years Later_

**Riddle House**

* * *

At first glance, Riddle Estate was unassuming and easily dismissed, with its long stretch of a drive and the tall trees making a sturdy barricade around the lot. If one chose to peer through the tangled branches, they’d bear witness to a barren, two-story chantry with a dismal aura that spoke of neglect.

Four years had passed since he had last visited his family manor. It was rather was small compared to others, but decadent enough for Tom. In all it's splendor, it was  _his._

The brick was invaded by thorny vines, twining together and reaching out for a coy embrace. In the back was a garden covered in snow, weeds and deadened wildflowers sticking through the blanket of white.

This was the sight Thomas Riddle was greeted to as he forced open the back gate. The hinges squeaked pitifully in response to the pressure of his hand, echoing over the silence of the yard. Painted in shades of brown and white, the scene was creased and faded like a copy of an old photograph. Not even the wind dared to interrupt this eerie repository.

Tom stepped forward, feeling the snow crunch beneath his shoes. His breath floated before him in puffs of steam.

Hands settled on hips, his blue eyes peered across the yard, passing over the plush snow, ragged plant-life, the cracked porcelain bird bath and the cobblestone trail. Trying not to disturb any creatures hibernating in the underbrush, Tom lowered himself onto the bench swing nestled between two trees. His head tilted back, wisps of memories - the agonized screams of his father and the bloody tears of his step-mother, Cecilia.

Tom had promised his step-mother a swift death if only Thomas Senior would amend his will to include Thomas.

He had lied. 

Tom, staring out over his _earned_ inheritance, smiled.

It had been a lovely early birthday present, if he did say so himself.

* * *

_LAST WILL OF THOMAS RIDDLE_

_I, Thomas Riddle, in the event of my death, hereby relinquish rights to any familial property and inheritance  to my only son and heir, Thomas Riddle Junior, to be received upon his twenty-first birthday._ _Witness my hand and seal._

_Lord Thomas Riddle Snr._

* * *

The home was a rather dreary place at the moment, bereft of life and left unattended for years. Along with his father and step-mother, Tom had killed the housekeeper and the gardener, deemed by the authorities a classic case of robbery-turned-homicide.

The then-seventeen year old Tom had been conveniently at Wool’s Orphanage. The matron, an alcoholic, was easily fooled and too proud to admit that she let one of her kids slip away, right under her nose. While Wool’s Orphanage had been a valuable alibi, he was now twenty-one, and it was time to claim his inheritance.

Tom let out a small cough as he dragged over a chair and pulled opened the velvet curtains, picking up a billow of dust. Daylight streamed through a yellowing windowpane, the view distorted by grime and one very large spider that dangled from the wooden frame. The spider had weaved it's silver web a bit too close to a slate of wood and had gotten four of his eight legs caught between the slates. Very slowly, careful not to startle the insect, he plucked it away and squished it between his thumb and forefinger, putting it out of its misery.

Moving away from the window, Tom stared out at the rays of light crawling across the floors and up the wall. Cobwebs tangled down the muted paisley wallpaper and curled around the framed photographs teetering crookedly on silver nails. A boringly pretty woman stared down at him, while her husband stood with a hand on her shoulder. Handsome features were placid, emotionless, Thomas Senior’s familiar blue eyes deadened. 

It seemed a burrow of mice had found their way into his home. Tom wrinkled his nose in vague disgust. The kitchen was only a few steps away, the scent of oven cleaner burning into his nostrils. Tom had spent the previous day cleaning the kitchen of moldy food and unsalvageable dishware, most of it too filthy to even consider eating off of.

Setting the stove and deftly snatching a can of soup, Tom idly stirred it until the juice began to broil. Finally ladling it into a bowl, he silently sat at the a small wooden table sitting against the wall. The varnish was faded and scratched, desperately needing a good polish. As he readied his spoon to take a sip, Tom startled as as a sharp rap came at the door. With a sigh, he pushed back his chair. It would be, perhaps, an investment to hire a butler.

The receiving room was small and uninviting, with a stack of dusty calling cards left on a table. 

Through the front door's peephole, Tom could see very little of the interloper, except for the glint of a mailman's button up. In one swift movement, Tom unlocked the door and held it open only a crack, the chain catching. A single blue eye peered outside.

"Good day, lad!" the man blustered, a large blue hat teetering on his bald head. He looked a titch cold, bouncing from foot to foot, clenching his mail-bag to himself. "I daresay I never thought I’d see the day this old place would be fixed up. Although . . . you wouldn’t happen to be Lord Riddle’s bastard, would you?"

Tom seethed at the crassness. “He was my father."

The man pulled out a crisp white envelope from his bag. "I thought I recognized your face. You've got mail." He waved the letter. “I quite remember your father. He was a consultant for Constabulary, I recall - a detective.”

This was news to Tom.  

"That letter," the mailman nodded to it. "That's from the Malfoys. You see their emblem, eh? Real pretentious," he grinned. "Good luck, with whatever those twits want." With a slight, mocking bow, the man left Tom with his letter, disappearing into the light snowfall.

With a puff of cold air, Tom shut the door, staring down at the letter. It was pressed with a deep red emblem, the image of two dragons fluttering about the letter _M._

It _was_ rather pretentious, he thought with a faint frown. Peeling it off with his thumb nail, he leaned back against the door, unfolding the sharply creased paper.

_Lord Riddle of Little Hangleton,_

_Though we have likely never met, word of your sleuthing has reached far._

_My name is Lord Lucius Malfoy, and I am in dire need of your expertise . . ._

* * *

_One Week Later_   

**Malfoy Manor**

* * *

Tom covered his nose delicately at the smell of tobacco. His seat rattled as the coach ascended up a long, winding road, the smoke from the driver’s cigar wafting through the partition. The automobile was a compact piece of hardware, with leather seats and a glossy exterior.

Slipping past a wrought iron gate, the chauffeur turned into the driveway of Malfoy Manor. Gleaming black patrol cars were parked at the front doors, creating a protective barricade. A flurry of journalists was clustered at the entrance, donned in scarves and cameras. As they drove past, a woman bundled in green fur lifted her camera, the light flashing. 

Lord Lucius Malfoy's winter home was built with a staggering amount of dark stone and copper fixings, its numerous chimneys reaching high above the ash trees. The ancient mansion was older than him, and cost more than he would likely ever make in his lifetime.

Tom pulled his valise to his lap. He was dressed in his father’s wardrobe, a tight-fitting waistcoat, ironed pleats and freshly polished shoes. His wavy black hair was plastered to his scalp with a liberal amount of hair cream, framing blue eyes and a clean-shaven face.

"We’ve arrived, Lord Riddle,” The car had been brought around to a side entrance, and parked with effort, the driver grunting. “Lord Malfoy is expecting you in his office.”

Tom smiled at the man. “Introduce me as _Detective_ Riddle, if you don't mind.” He was enjoying himself immensely.

Taking his father’s place had been a risk, but no riskier than patricide. He could do this.

Placing a black bowler carefully atop his head, Tom took in a deep breath. Bracing himself against the winter breeze, he stepped out onto a raised platform, drops of snowfall settling onto shoulder pads. The driver, tapping out his cigar, hopped from the front seat and knocked twice on the sturdy door.

With a pulse of warm air, the door opened.

“Lord Malfoy,” the chauffeur said with a low bow. “Detective Riddle, as requested.”

“Ah, yes,” Malfoy murmured, extending a large hand. If he was startled at Tom’s youthful appearance, he kept it carefully concealed behind a polite expression. “I expect your journey was well?”

The man looked worn. He had dark pockets of exhaustion beneath his eyes, lines on his face that belied a deep dissatisfaction. His hair existed in a long, grey sheen of hair, tied back with a black ribbon. The wrinkles in his face were hidden behind pale powder. He was no taller than Tom (an already tall man at his age), and wore a black suit with a sweat-soaked handkerchief tucked into his front pocket. Lord Malfoy stared at him with an expectant gaze, and Tom quickly took his hand. “Yes, my lord. I apologize for my late arrival; the train ought to have arrived yesterday, but the snow held us up. Thank you for sending a driver at such late notice.”

“It was no trouble,” Malfoy said. “Come in, out of the cold. Thank you, Ernest,” he spoke to the driver. “You may bring the car around back,” his nostrils twitched with amusement. “And don't let Narcissa see you smoking, she'll have your head for it.”

Tom gravitated toward the fireplace, removing his gloves and setting down his case. On the mantel were several framed portraits the flaxen-haired Malfoy family. The largest of which was a self-portrait of Lord Malfoy - a bit narcissistic, but Tom supposed the man had reason to be. The office was lined wall-to-wall with books and packets of documents strewn across the desk with no discernible rhyme or reason. There was a dark green curtain separating the office from the rest of the house, the muffled sound of footsteps and soft chatter drifting through the curtain’s slit.

Tom wondered at that; all this fuss for a case of stolen silver?

“May I continue, Lucius?” The stranger said stiffly, ruffled by the interruption caused by Tom’s arrival. The man was dressed fastidiously in a dark police uniform, his long, scraggly hair held back with a tie. He was thin as a pole, but what he lacked in bulk he made up for in height.

“Where are my manners? Detective Riddle, this is Officer Rufus Scrimgeour, from the Department of Law Enforcement. Rufus, meet -  "

"Cease the pleasantries, Lucius," His thick, sandy brows drew together angrily. “You hired a private detective?” he asked, accent thick. "Where on earth did you find one so _young_?" 

“To be truthful, I was . . . unsure of his age, merely knowledgeable of his impressive track record." Lucius leaned toward Tom conspiratorially. "You came highly recommended by an old acquaintance of mine; Lord Crouch. I heard there was some scandal regarding the death of his first wife and son, but that _may_ have been an exaggeration.”

Tom gave the smallest of smirks. 

The Crouch son had been, in fact, a serial rapist with an Oedipal complex, ending his spree with a murder-suicide. Crouch Senior had been initially blamed for their deaths, but although Lord Riddle had cleared his name, Crouch's reputation would never be the same.

He had read up on his father’s conquests; it had been a shock to learn Thomas Senior was quite intelligent, although Tom knew he couldn’t have gotten it from his _mother._

From his corner, the police officer made a vague, darkly amused noise. “This amateur sleuth - pardon, _detective_ \- can’t be any older than your son, Lucius. It wasn't so long ago he was still in nappies, eh?" Tom shifted before the fireplace, suddenly warm all over. Silence reigned as Malfoy stared down the police officer, silver eyes unimpressed.

"I thought it best to hire someone . . . not so prone to _gossip_ as the DLE," he leveled Scrimgeour with a significant look. “I know _my_ family didn't tip off the press, so watch your tone, Rufus. I respect you and the DLE greatly, but you do _not_ have a say in who I hire when it comes to the safety of my family.

Scrimgeour sighed, the battle lost. “That is your prerogative, I suppose; however, I insist you leave this to the DLE. An amateur sleuth may have been useful yesterday, when this was a simple case of silverware theft - but the situation has clearly escalated.”

Lucius grimaced to himself, running a harried hand down his beard.

Tom ran the words over in his head, recalling the police cars up front and the frenzied journalists muttering amongst themselves. “Whatever do you mean?” Tom asked, excitement and fear beginning to thrum through him. “What has happened?”

Officer Scrimgeour, with an air of posturing, stood tall and spoke gravely.

“As of six-thirty this morning, when the body of a maid stuffed into the silver vault was discovered, this investigation became not only one of theft - but also of murder.”  

* * *

“Five minutes.” Officer Scrimgeour warned. “No more, no less. The coroner will be arriving soon.”  

Gas lanterns in the shape of serpents lit the dining room’s entrance. Scrimgeour reluctantly let the younger man pass, giving him a sour, distrustful look.

The room was as opulent as the rest of the house, decorated in greens and leathery browns that mimicked Lady Malfoy's Celtic origins. Plated gold shimmered from the ceiling, the polished mahogany furniture gleaming; Curved china cabinets were tucked into the corners, holding gold and pink tea sets that seemed too delicate to be used practically.

Tom readied himself both mentally and physically.

The vault door was open wide, and inside, a body was lying still in the sparse, but high-ceilinged space. 

Miss Nymphadora Tonks was dressed in virginal white, a halo of red surrounding her scalp. The brain is like blancmange in a tin; a fickle organ, in which one bad blow could kill even the healthiest man. Her dark, disheveled hair was caked with an excessive amount of blood, the scent familiar to Tom's nose. He breathed in deeply, peering ever so closer.

While the rest of her hair was midnight black, her roots, oddly, were a shade of blonde that indicated dyed hair. Despite the violent head wound, she was laid to rest peacefully, eyes closed as if asleep, her head cushioned on the floor. There seemed to be faint burns on her forehead, her pale features tinted with pink and puckered burns. She had fallen forward onto something hot, Tom realized. Perhaps a stove. Making the location of death - 

“See here?” Scrimgeour's dulcet tones broke through Tom's thoughts. He tapped the wall, where a strange symbol had been cleverly carved into the wooden wainscoting. “It’s the Seal of Solomon. Inside is a little knob to open the vault. You would need to have intimate knowledge of the Malfoy manor to find it.”

Tom agreed softly and moved into a crouch. Head tilting, he looked closer at the girl, absorbing even the smallest details - from the tea stains on her nightgown to the band of white, mottled skin around her ring finger. “The girl. Was she married?”

A frown played at the officer’s lips. “Engaged, Lord Malfoy said. My boys are bringing the fiancé down to the station for questioning. Why do you ask?”

“Her ring is missing - it’s been stolen post-mortem, if the circulation is any indication.”

Scrimgeour blinked, dark eyebrows arching to the middle of his forehead.

Before he could speak, a voice drifted through the door.  “Are you boys done in there?” came a light soprano.

Officer Scrimgeour wheeled around, removing his hat, his expression twisted into a grimace-like smile. "Lady Malfoy! Good day, ma’am.” Following etiquette, Tom stood from his crouch, shutting the vault door for the lady's sake.

The Malfoy matriarch was dressed in a trim blue gown edged with lace, her hair plaited impeccably, bosom glinting with jewels. Narcissa Malfoy's looks were unremarkable, but she held herself strong, formidably. She had blond hair and full lips, paired with dark, shrewd eyes that betrayed a fierce cleverness. Motherhood gave her a soft figure and the ability to command compliance with a single word. Her words were sharp, and Scrimgeour- who had given the impression of being a stubborn sort - practically quivered in her presence. 

“It has not been, in fact, a _‘good day’_ , Rufus. Has the coroner arrived yet? I am certain Miss Tonks' family would like to bury the body _sometime_  this century," she said with an abrasiveness Tom immediately respected. 

“The coroner is nearly here.” Scrimgeour informed her. “We will be out of your hair in no time.”

“I dearly hope so,” her gimlet gaze flickered to Tom. “And you are?”

Tom glided forward to press his lips to her soft, manicured hand. “Detective Riddle, ma’am,” Tom spoke smoothly. “Pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”

“Indubitably.” Her eyes softened minutely. “Lucius told me he had hired a young sleuth - of the noble Riddle family?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lady Malfoy nodded approvingly. She leveled a tired, mournful stare at the vault door. “I wish we had met under better circumstances," she said softly. "I would like to ask you a few questions about your investigation. Would you mind terribly if we take this conversation to the breakfast room? With the excitement of the day, I find myself quite parched. Do make haste, Scrimgeour," Narcissa said over her shoulder, voice soft as silk. “I daresay you have overstayed your welcome. It is high time that my dining room be relinquished back to me.”

The DLE officer floundered, flushing a shade of alarming pink. Tom bit back a laugh, and allowed himself to be led across the hall.

The breakfast room was impressive and bright, the snow blindingly white through the large windows. A fire was burning in the hearth and Lady Malfoy took a seat closest to it, the tension visibly dispelling from her body. She placed her hands delicately on the table as Tom sat across from her.

“This is my favorite room in the house,” she confided, leaning away as a maid appeared from the butler’s pantry to serve them tea. A silver spoon clinked as she stirred the milk, the pale girl avoiding their eyes. Her hands faintly trembled and Lady Malfoy sneered at her weakness. 

Tom cleared his throat. “Where is your husband?”  

“Taking care of business elsewhere. He cares very much for our family’s reputation, and with the press loitering about at the front gates - well.” She sighed, taking a deep sip of her tea. Her nose wrinkled. "I can taste your tears in this, Myrtle," she snapped.

The girl flinched. "I'm sorry, my lady." She wiped her face, and poured a new cup. 

“Thank you,” Tom said softly, taking his cup from Myrtle. She glanced at him gratefully, giving a watery smile.

“We are all quite upset, naturally, but Lucius and I were raised to carry ourselves with _decorum_. We won't allow this single tarnish ruin the Malfoy's good name.” Narcissa stared down into her cup, watching her distorted reflection. “Have you any leads thus far?”

Tom paused, clearly hesitant. “Not yet, ma'am. I would like to speak to your staff, if possible."

“I can assure you that they are all immensely reliable,” she sent a glare at Myrtle. "Most of them, at least."

“I am not casting that into doubt, ma’am. But the evidence would suggest that whoever bludgeoned Miss Tonks -” he swallowed back his words. “Apologies, ma’am.”

The woman shook her head dismissively. “Do not worry about my ‘sensibilities’, detective. We're Londoners. A dead body is not the worst thing I have seen.” With a twitch of her hand, she beckoned Myrtle forward to replenish her cup.

"Well," Tom shifted. "Whoever killed Miss Tonks had access to not only your house, but also knew how to enter the silver vault. Additionally, her engagement ring was stolen, and so - "

"Not the first silver stolen this month," Narcissa muttered to herself. 

" - Logic would suggest that whoever stole the ring . . . is also the killer.”

At his words, the maid gave a sudden jerk, tea spilling from the pot’s spout. Lady Malfoy gasped, pushing back from the table as her lap was doused with the warm liquid. Myrtle quickly dabbed at the stain with a napkin, muttering frantic apologies. "You useless chit!" Lady Malfoy snapped. "Get your hands off of me."

Tom stood as Narcissa did, brows drawn in concern. "Have you been burned?"

"No. I am fine," she huffed, smoothing out her skirt. "But my gown has been stained. I must freshen up - no, I will not need your help, Myrtle," Lady Malfoy lifted a hand at the fretting maid. "Escort Detective Riddle into the basement and gather the other servants for his interrogation. Or will that be too _difficult_ for you?"

She left the room with a scowl. 

Myrtle trembled from head to toe, eyes glistening with tears. Tom sighed, bringing a hand to his brow.

"Myrtle?" he reminded softly. "The basement?"

She nodded, wiping her cheeks with the hem of her apron, and escorted him downstairs.

* * *

Ten minutes later, the servants were seated at the scratched wooden table in a uniform line, reminiscent of the Last Supper. Only the houseman, Harry Potter, stood, his hands placed demurely behind his back. He had offered Tom a drink, but the man had declined. Taken away from their daily routine, the servants had been gathered in the small, dim basement dining room. The smell of laundry soap and cooking oils were stale in the air.  Tom inspected the staff quietly, taking in the silver streaks of tears on the pantry-maid’s cheeks.

The cook passed the maid a stained handkerchief with a soft consolation. “There, there, dear. Wipe those tears.”

Tom glanced down at his leather-bound notebook, his first impressions noted with a quick scrawl of ink. He tapped the pages idly, and sat straighter in the hard wooden seat. “Officer Scrimgeour tells me you worked with Miss Tonks closely,” he began, speaking in a cool tone. He was channeling his father’s spirit, using spoken word like a virtuoso, able to coax the smallest truths from any individual. “Tell me, Mister Potter, what was your impression of Miss Tonks? Alive, that is.”

At his callous words, the pantry-maid broke out into another round of sobs, trim shoulders shaking. The houseman didn’t seem bothered by it. Potter was younger than Tom by only a few years, maintaining a clean-shaven face and a trim figure, with the calloused hands of a laborer. He had thick, curly black hair held in back a ribbon, and eerie green eyes framed by kohl.

His placid expression deepened into the smallest of frowns. “Dora was a dedicated worker, sir,” he said in a quiet voice. “She knew her place, kept quiet and was diligent with her duties. Minerva and Myrtle knew her a bit better,” he gestured to the women.  

Minerva McGonagall was a stern-looking woman with a trim waist, dark hair piled imperiously atop her head. Flour was streaked across her apron, the stain of blueberries on her dark fingertips.

She spoke bluntly. “Dora was very sweet. A bit clumsy - couldn't cook a proper _soufflé_ without burning it, but could make a mean cup of tea."

“Tell me about last night,” Tom asked them. “Who was the last to see her?”

The cook and houseman exchanged a glance, shaking their heads minutely.  “I - ” the pantry maid spoke up, voice watery and rasping. She had been reticent, staring into space with a haunted mien. She worried at the kerchief, twisting it shyly.  “I may know.”

“And you are?”  

"Myrtle Warren.” The girl was petite, with curling black hair and red-rimmed eyes. She reminded Tom of a mouse, fit with a twitching nose and a grey frock. “We share a room, and we received an alert from the son’s room on the calling board. It was around midnight. She took the call and t - to my knowledge,” her lips trembled. “Never returned to bed.” 

Fountain pen darting across his book, Tom furiously took notes. He paused at the word _son_ , brows drawing inward. Draco Malfoy was the Malfoy heir. A spoiled brat, more than likely. 

“I heard footsteps entering the kitchen at that time,” Potter spoke contemplatively, pulling Tom from his musings. “And then, a bit later, returning upstairs.” 

“One set of footsteps?”

“Yes," he puffed out an irritated breath. "Rest assured, our security system is state-of-the-art. If there were any incidents, I'd be aware of it.”

"How do you know this for certain?” Tom pressed. 

Potter scowled. "I've had to chase off a drunkard once or twice in the past year. The calling-board rings like mad, it could wake the dead," he shook his head, a strand of gelled hair falling into his eyes. “There have been no security breaches since.”

“That can’t be,” the cook inserted, the tabletop rattling as she jerked forward. “The kitchen was a mess, like a war had been fought, and there was a terrible draft. The coal delivery entrance had been left open. The intruder may have - ” 

The houseman's voice was knife-like. “I assure you, this house was -  _is -_  secure."

“Obviously not,” the woman snapped. “Your precious system is not foolproof, Potter. A girl was murdered here last night, and if you believe that was merely some fluke . . . then it’s you who has been played a fool.” She stormed from the room in a flurry of skirts.

Myrtle, limbs tremulous, stood quickly. “G - goodday, sir,” she curtsied, before following after, handkerchief clenched between her thin fingers. Harry was pale, green eyes watery, the tension in the air strong. Tom watched him closely for any further reaction, but the man soon schooled his emotions, showing careful, learned control.

“Is there anything more I can help you with, sir?” the houseman asked timidly. 

Tom shut his notebook with a clap, standing smoothly. “If you are capable, I would like to meet young Lord Draco Malfoy.”

Harry winced. “Why for?”

Tom brushed past him, expression grim. “He may very well have been one of the last to see Miss Tonks alive.” 

* * *

 

**_To be continued . . ._ **

**__ **

This brilliant sketch of Malfoy Manor (inspired by the James J. Hill House in St. Paul, Minnesota) is courtesy of the beautiful [quokk-a](http://quokk-a.tumblr.com/). 


	3. Silver Spoon

_**Blind Man's Bluff** _

**TanninTele**

* * *

  _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

_**II:** _

_The silver spoon's been stolen_

_from the spoiled son's mouth._   

_A man's who's as rotten as his kidney_

_Only pretends to be uncouth._

* * *

**Malfoy Manor**

* * *

The son was lazing about in the Malfoy family library, the silver and green decor making his pale skin appear even paler. There was something petulant about him, with his supple lips, narrowed eyes and pointed face, flaxen hair smoothed over his forehead. He was reclined at the window seat, reading a small hardback with heavily lidded eyes. His dark green tie was hanging around his neck, the collar popped open without care of propriety.

“Lord Draco,” Harry said softly, standing unobtrusively at the curtains. “Detective Riddle would like to speak with you.”  

Draco dragged himself from the book pages, his lips pursed with apparent distaste. At his critical stare, Tom drew himself to his full, if not terribly impressive height.

"Detective?” Draco sounded skeptical. “Why, you’re no older than me! I suppose you’re here about the girl, then?”

“I am.” Tom confirmed, he moved closer to the settee. “May I sit?”

The boy waved a negligent hand. “You won’t be here long. I have nothing to say to you.”

Tom frowned, removing his notebook and ballpoint, preparing for notes. “I’ll keep this brief, then, for your sake. The servants claim you were the last to see Miss Tonks. You requested a cup of tea before bed - ”

“Is that a crime?” Draco sounded defensive. “It is difficult for me to sleep some nights, when I am so used to the snoring of my schoolmates.”

“You attend a boarding school, correct?”

“Yes, unfortunately," he sighed, before elaborating. "I was privately tutored until I turned eleven. My father, apparently, thought it would do my self-confidence some good to surround myself with simpletons. Don't tell them, but I'm thinking of dropping out. The academy simply isn't challenging enough for me." 

"Really?" Tom asked, dubious. The boy seemed dim as a rock. 

"The headmaster isn't letting me graduate this year, anyways," the boy murmured, lifting an indolent shoulder. "I've skipped far too many classes. I'm welcome at home, so long as I stay out of the way." 

 _Layabout._ Tom thought, fighting a sneer. “I see," he changed the subject, turning a page in his notebook. "Are you particularly _close_ with the staff?”

“Oh, heavens no!” Draco seemed disturbed by the very thought. “Like Potter here, they are pitifully dull. Most stay out of the way, and that is how it should be, no? Personally, I think one of them killed the girl. And who else could have stolen from the silver vault? Your skills would be far better used further investigating them, detective.” With his point made, Draco returned to his book. 

The detective stewed in silence for a moment, angering flickering in his chest. Tom tempered it valiantly, clenching the spine of his notebook. Draco's attitude was so ridiculously lackadaisical that Tom was left with two outstanding conclusions. The Malfoy scion was either an excellent actor, or - Tom was beginning to suspect - simply the dullest man alive.

Or dead.

“Am I boring you, Lord Malfoy?” he had to ask.

“Yes, in fact, now that you mention it.”

Tom leaned forward, eyes blazing. He rarely felt so disrespected, and twice today he had been taken for a fool. “Perhaps you’ll find this interesting then,” he bit out. “Lord Malfoy, you may very well have been the last person to see Miss Tonks alive -”

“Other than the killer that is? Detective,” he spoke the word with barely concealed contempt. “I hardly knew the girl. What would be my motive? Was I driven to _manslaughter_ because she overindulged with the sugar cubes?”

“Men have killed for far worse.”

"In fact," the boy continued, at this point merely whinging. "Around midnight, I asked her for some chamomile, and she never returned. Lazy chit. I eventually fell back asleep, and that's the last I saw of her. Now, if you desire my opinion -  _who doesn't? -_  I recommend you stop searching for motives where there _are_ none and actually do your  _job_. Officer Scrimgeour and his motley crew have vacated the building," Draco spoke mockingly, gesturing out the window, where the multitude of police vehicles had begun  pulling away. "I suppose you'd want to follow?" 

Thomas stood quickly, face flushing with anger. _S_ _crimgeour was trying to leave_ without  _him?_ He adjusted his frock. “I'd say it was a pleasure, but - ”

Draco waved him off, appearing tired of his presence. “Hurry along, detective. I wish you the best of luck," his lips twisted vindictively. "You most certainly will need it.”  

* * *

  **Department of Law Enforcement**

* * *

Thomas stared at the black and white checkered floor in the recieving room, ignoring the secretary's none-too-subtle glances. She was olive-skinned and thin as a rod, her corset drawn painfully tight. While the fabric of her uniform was grey and drab, her neckline was plunging - Tom wondered if that was by choice, or if the officers were taking advantage of having a member of the fairer sex around the office. Regardless, the clicking of her nails against the typewriter was quickly becoming obnoxious.

Tom reviewed his notes from the staff's interrogation, circling the cook's offhand comment  _'The kitchen was a mess, like a war had been fought, and there was a terrible draft. The coal delivery entrance had been left open.'_

"Would you care for some tea, sir?" The secretary spoke up nervously. "Or a cigar?"

Tom didn't bother glancing up. "No, thank you." Her bottom lip pouted. He took a deep breath, glancing up with a sly smirk. "Missus Hornby . . . " 

"I'm unmarried," the girl said breathlessly. 

" _Miss_ Hornby, then. Would you mind  _terribly_ checking in on Officer Scrimgeour for me? I understand he's a very busy man, but my time is valuable as well." Shutting his notebook, Tom pulled out his pocket-watch. It was an old thing, found in his father’s possessions, but a quick polish made it appear sparkling and expensive. He tsked in mock disappointment. 

The girl practically fell from her chair, brushing out her gown.  "Yes, sir, of course, sir - " she took a deep breath. "I'll be a minute." 

She reminded him of the easily flustered maid, Myrtle. Tom looked back down at his notebook. Something about the pantry maid irked him - not just her sniveling and simpering manner. But perhaps that was simply her temperament; and if so, she needed serious therapy. 

After exactly four minutes, according to his watch, the secretary clicked back onto the tile. "Officer Scrimgeour says the suspect is ready for you," she said primly, handing him a slim folder. 

Standing, he followed her deeper into the station. 

The building was expansive and bustling with life; tall, uniformed men barked at each other from behind rows of desks. Brown folders were stacked to staggering heights, the wall-to-wall shelves already filled with carefully organized books and binders. Light streamed through large, round windows, the rays dancing as snow fell steadily outside. Tom wrinkled his nose as they passed a pimply intern, pushing a coffee cart. He suspected, from the irritated shouting and the sheer number of frayed handle-bar mustaches, that the Department of Law Enforcement was fueled solely by caffeine and spite. 

As they walked, Tom skimmed over the fiancé's file. 

_R.J. Lupin._

_C_ _urrently unemployed,_  it read, among other useless facts. At the bottom were Officer Scrimgeour's annotations.   

_Suspected alcoholic, but cooperated well with detaining and interrogation._

"Bugger," Tom murmured to himself, too soft to be heard. He'd been looking forward to confirming or denying the rumor of the DLE's heavy-handed 'persuasion techniques'. Times like these, with the excitement and anticipation thrumming through him, he couldn't help his more sadistic tendencies. They were ingrained into his very nature.

"Was the suspect inebriated upon detaining?" he asked Hornby, just for something to say. The girl nodded tentatively, bringing him around a corner to a hallway of doors. 

"He was stumbling around and crying, made quite the commotion," she said quietly. "But he was quite polite, and apologized for 'traumatizing the lady'. I've seen far worse than a tearful drunkard, though," she laughed tightly. "I think he was putting on a bit of a show, to be honest. But don't take my word for it. After-all, I'm just the secretary."

They stopped at a door, made of hard metal. 

Tom returned her thin-lipped smile. "Thank you, Miss Hornby." Tucking the files beneath his arm, he reached down to kiss her hand. Her nails curled into her palm.  

"Anything I can do to help, Detective," Hornby breathed, smitten.

Tom used his back to push open the door; the first thing he heard was Officer Scrimgeour shouting, rather shrilly, in fact. 

" - there's no  _possible_ explanation for you  _tipping off_ the Daily - fucking - Prophet about our suspect, other than some inane desire to get under Rita Skeeter's lime green petticoat. Your loose lips make the entire department look bad, and  _I'm_ the one that has to deal with Malfoy and his dragon-lady wife." Scrimgeour gestured toward the one-way mirror. "Not to mention this drunk fool, who you've destined to a life of misery and suspicion."

"I had to tell Rita  _something!"_ a shorter, blonde-haired deputy spluttered. His skin looked mottled, red from frustration, but bruised in numerous places. His nose was crooked from a fisticuffs gone wrong; he thought it made him look 'distinguished'. "She wouldn't leave me alone, with her s-soft quill and her r-rosy red lips . . . " he trailed off. "She was taking pictures of us as we brought Lupin in, and it all just . . . slipped out." 

Scrimgeour cuffed him upside the head. "Fool," he spat.

Tom cleared his throat delicately. The two glanced up, faces shifting impressively into blank, professional slates. "Detective Riddle," Scrimgeour stood straighter. "I was expecting you. We've already questioned Lupin, so there's little else for you to do here." 

"I'd just like to ask him a few things," Tom said smoothly. 

"As you desire. This is Deputy Lugo Bagman, my unfortunate second-in-command." Scrimgeour shot Ludo a scathing look. The officer seemed to dislike Ludo, even more than he did Tom. Quite a feat, that. 

He swiped a file of papers off the desk. "As I have quite a bit of  _actual_ work to do, Ludo will introduce you to the suspect," Scrimgeour clapped Tom on the back, _hard_ , sending the boy jolting forward. "Best of luck,  _detective."_

Ludo gaped as the door slammed shut. Tom ignored him, moving over to stare through the one-way mirror. It showed a sandy-haired man, hunched over a table in either boredom or despondency. Lupin had lifted his head at the door slamming, wild eyes darting back and forth. It was a titch eerie to have someone looking, unseeing, straight at him. "Have you spoken to him? Lupin?" 

Bagman twitched. "Er - yes. He was rather incoherent, and almost threw up on Scrimgeour's shoes." 

"Is that why he's so cross?"

"Oh, no, he's always like that," Bagman mumbled nervously. "Lupin has an alibi - claimed he was at the Hog's Head Tavern all night - " this was spoken dubiously. "But Scrimgeour wants to keep him here until he sobers up. Might have a bit more information, then."

Tom arched a brow. "You don't trust that alibi." 

"The barkeep doesn't remember Lupin staying any later than nightfall, and time of death was around midnight. A few patrons argued, said they saw him stay longer, but I'm not placing my trust in a bunch of homeless, wifeless, sulking sissies." Lugo said vehemently. 

"I'm going to speak with him," Tom said determinedly. "See if I can wheedle anything more out of him." 

Lugo grinned widely, flashing shark-like teeth. "Don't be afraid to use your fists to sober him up. It's a great stress reliever." 

* * *

"I don't mean disrespect, but you don't have  _anything_ on me, kid." R.J. Lupin was adamant on this. 

Tom leaned against a wall, his jacket tossed onto the table. The interrogation room was humid and claustrophobic, and he could see the anxiety slowly getting to Lupin. 

He was in his mid-forties and was dressed in nothing but ragged suspenders. Lupin may have been handsome in his prime, but alchohol poisoning and depression had made him almost gaunt and jaundiced. The pale scar across his cheek stood out like a branding. "Can I  _leave_ now?" he asked, almost broken sounding. "I have funeral preparations to make." 

Tom rolled up his sleeves and fixed his cufflinks, before serving another sharp backhand. The sound rang clear, picked up by the whirring reel-to-reel audio recorder on the desk. 

Lupin coughed violently, spitting a clot of blood. "I don't - " he massaged his chin and tested his words, tongue feeling swollen. He hardly seemed phased by the rough treatment. "I wouldn't _ever_ hurt Dora. She was the love of my life." 

"You couldn't provide for her," the detective pointed out. "You were unemployed; the Malfoys fired you as their butler. She was just a girl, nineteen at most, and she was slaving day and night for them." 

"I feel horrible about it," Lupin spat, his words slurred. "Everyday. But the Malfoys treated her well, I know that - she was safe with them." 

"Safe from who?" Tom insisted. 

"Safe from  _me!_ They f-fired me for my drinking. I - I hit a boy there, little Harry," he choked, hazel eyes bloodshot. "He was like a son to me. It was on accident, but if I hit _him_ , I might've hurt Dora."

Tom bit his tongue. "How do you know you  _haven't?"_

Remus choked out a laugh. "I _don't_ know. That's the problem. But I - I saved her, you know? When I got her at the auction, she was going to be sold off as a concubine. She was clumsy and couldn't cook to save her life, so I taught her everything I knew. We . . . we became close, and I proposed without thinking. I _knew_ she was too young for me, and deserved better, but she told me everyday I was strong, that I didn't have to rely on booze for strength - " 

"She loved you." 

"And I love her! I chose to be _fired_ rather than face her everyday, like  _this,"_ he gestured down at himself, despondent and sloppy, eyes burning from bitter tears.

"But you never broke off the engagement?" 

"I . . . I wanted to. But I couldn't hurt her like that." He swallowed tightly. "Do you - do you suppose I could get the ring back? To remember her by?"  

"The ring has been stolen, post-mortem," Tom said blandly, without sympathy. "We presume by the murderer." 

Lupin blinked in surprise, mouth dragging open. "That was my mother's ring," he whispered to himself. "I couldn't afford a new ring for Dora, but she . . . she loved it. She loved feeling like apart of my family. Do you - " Remus cleared this throat, looking up. "Do you have any more questions?" 

"Yes." Tom eyed Lupin for a moment. "Your fiancée. Black wasn't her natural hair color, was it?" 

"N - no." 

"I saw her blonde roots. Was she was hiding her identity, then?" Tom accused.

"No! I mean,  _yes,_ but it was only . . . only because," Lupin wavered, torn between protecting her secrets and absolving her of guilt. He glanced at audio recorder and leaned closer to Tom. "She didn't want Lady Malfoy to know who she was." 

Tom pressed. "Which was?" 

"Her _niece_." 

* * *

Handing the bulky audio reel to Bagman, Tom's expression was grim. "Get a confession?" Ludo asked excitedly, eyeing the blood on Tom's fist. 

"Not quite," he sighed. "The man's a drunk and a fool, but he loved his girl. Let him go home. Rather than wedding plans to prepare for, he has to ready a funeral." 

"I doubt he'll be going  _home,"_ Ludo sneered. "Likely straight to the bar." 

Tom, ever-logical, played the devil's advocate. "Everyone copes slightly different. I'm going to need a transcript of that as soon as possible, by the way." Ludo made a vague, bored noise. "If you aren't willing, I'll ask the secretary." 

"Watch out for that one," the deputy grinned. "She may look coy, but she can be quite the tiger." 

Rolling his eyes, Tom left Ludo with the suspect, and exited the hall. It seemed to be supper time, as only a few officers remained at their desks, gnawing on roast beef sandwiches from the cafeteria. Scrimgeour, noticeable by his lion's mane of hair, was behind a large desk. He seemed exhausted, his coat discarded and his mustache twitching. 

Tom debated pestering the man, but decided he'd rather be at the Malfoy's, questioning the butler some more. Passing into the receiving room, he found Hornby on the telephone, her pale lips murmuring a series of numbers. "Yes, sir. That's the number listed. Will that be all?" she paused, looking consternated. "Don't worry, Davies, I won't tell him. Have a good evening, sir." 

She placed the phone into the receiver, just as Tom sidled up to the desk. "Who was that?" 

"Oh!" Hornby's hand fluttered dismissively. "A deputy wanted the number of a witness, for the eleventh time. He thought she was cute; but I suspect she had a hand in killing her husband. The man was truly a brute, deserved every stab wound," she confided. "Oh - I really shouldn't be telling you that." 

Tom smiled at her. "My apologies. It's just very interesting to see the inner workings of a police station.  I'm very new to this detective business - " 

"But you're doing quite well!" she encouraged. "You've been nothing but polite and professional, which is more that I can say for most of the men here." 

Tom tipped his head graciously. "I was wondering, Miss Hornby, if you would mind transcribing the audio recording in interrogation room - four, I believe it was?" From his pocket, he removed a small, crisp business card. "My number. I need it done quickly, and you're the only one here I can trust." 

"I'd . . . be delighted." 

"Good," Tom paused. "I've also been considering opening a private business in Little Hangleton. I understand it's a bit of a distance, but I'll be needing a good, reliable, intelligent . . .  _discreet_ secretary. Just consider it, in case you ever get tired of Officer Scrimgeour and his bellowing." 

As he left, he spotted Hornby's hand over her heart, face almost as red as the blood that had dripped from Lupin's mouth. He smiled.

Exiting the station, Tom stared around the city. Snow continued to fall heavy and thick, the cool air shiver-inducing Streetlights glimmered and top hats bobbed in the distance, a crowd of Londoners leaving work for the night.  

Lifting a hand for a taxi cab, Tom rushed into the street. A black motor cab rumbled to a stop. "Where too, young man?" the driver leaned out his window, a cigar tucked in the corner of his mouth. His teeth were horrifically yellow. "You'd best get in quick. There'll be a snowstorm, soon." 

"It's not far from here, I think," Tom opened the back. "Up on Wiltshire Hill, number 03." 

The driver manually fixed the brake, frowning. "That's where them nobles live. You hear about the murder at the Malfoys?" Reaching over to his passenger seat, he flapped a stack of newspapers. 

Tom paused. "May I read that?" 

A black-and-white picture of Lupin being dragged from the Hog's Head Tavern made Tom grimace. The man looked crazed, his slovenly appearance and hazel eyes gleaming menacingly in the photo. 

**_Murder on the Hill_ **

_By Rita Skeeter._

_The streets of London aren’t known for their safety, nor their equal distribution of wealth._ _Lord Lucius Malfoy_ _knows this better than most, contributing much of his inherited monies to the Department of Law Enforcement and the_ Daily Prophet  _itself. He is one of the richest men in London, and likely the most educated; yet,_ _his good heart and trusting, charitable manner overcame all logic when it came to hiring a murderer._

 _This clash of classes began when R_ _emus Lupin was hired as their butler. He managed the Malfoy household for over a decade, until he was fired for drinking on the job and fraternizing with the recently departed nineteen-year old maid, Nymphadora Tonks._

 _Tonks had been bought and sold as a domestic servant at the age of fourteen, when her parents Theodore and Andromeda Tonks_ née  _Black were struck down by the consumption._ _In an odd twist of fate, she was hired by the Malfoy family, consisting of Lord Lucius and Lady Narcissa Malfoy . . ._ née  _ _Black.__

Tom felt his jaw twitch. In one short day - even without inside access to Malfoy Manor - Rita Skeeter had pulled together all the pieces of the puzzle, and had nearly solved it. 

Although Tom was stealing his father's identity for the thrill of it, he had never been so gloriously challenged in his life. It was almost an insult to discover this journalist - this  _sensationalist -_ was better at detective work than he. Or even Officer Scrimgeour. 

_An unnamed source at the DLE suspects this familial connection, and the possibility of an inheritance, drove Lupin to seduce and coerce the pantry maid to be his wife.  "She was a pretty girl," our source admits, struggling to detain the inebriated Lupin. "She deserved a lot better than this drunken brute."_

_It's suspected that Lupin returned to the Malfoy household last night and brutally attacked Tonks, bludgeoning her skull and shoving her into the silver vault to disguise his actions. Testimonies from Lupin's acquaintances at the Hog's Head Tavern attest to his character. Lupin was prone to fights, gambling, and was manic-depressive while under the influence. Authorities may ponder if Lupin was in the full capacity of his mind when he committed these atrocious crimes, but this journalist believes -_

"Dear God!" 

The cab screeched, jerking forward with a horrendous noise as something impacted their rear. Tom fell forward, hitting his jaw on the partition screen. The driver fought for control of the wheel, slamming on the brake with a Scottish curse. Skidding to a stop beside a yellowish streetlamp, Tom slowly sat up. He could taste iron in his mouth, and wondered if this was how Lupin felt in the interrogation room.  

"You alive, lad?" the driver asked, clearly rattled, but otherwise unharmed. 

"Hopefully," Tom muttered. He was sore all over, and had lost his top hat somewhere in the backseat. "What the hell happened?" 

The driver jabbed a finger outside.  The snowstorm had become unbearable, and Tom couldn't see two yards out the window. Headlights slowly faded from their view, lost to the sheet of white. "What a nut, he could'a killed us! Think he was drivin' under the influence?"

Tom rubbed at his chin, eyes narrowed dangerously. "I don't know  _what_ to think." 

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._ **


	4. Thieving Magpie

_**Blind Man's Bluff** _

**TanninTele**

* * *

  _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

_**III:** _

_Though the thieving magpie_

_is but a myth,_

_the girl with crow's hair_

_knows nothing of it._

* * *

**Malfoy Manor**

* * *

Lady Malfoy watched him with a thin veil of concern, her voice dripping with saccharine sentiment.

"Is there anything else we can do? You've experienced a trauma." 

Tom resisted a snort. "No, thank you, ma'am. A warm bed is all I really require." 

Her eyes lit up. "I think you shall stay with us, then, in the guest room. Perhaps spending a night here will . . . ah . . . _hone_ your detective skills." It sounded a bit like she read too many detective novels, but Tom wouldn't say no to a gift horse. 

With footsteps lighter than a mouse, the butler stepped into the lounge with a bundle of ice chips, bound with a handkerchief. Harry passed the bundle to Tom, their fingers grazing. Verdant green eyes met blue, and Tom suddenly, was speaking without forethought. "It  _would_ be beneficial to see where Miss Tonks stayed. I'm not implying I spend the night rooming with the maids, but I should stay in the servant's quarters, at least. I'd like to speak with  _Harry_ some more." 

The butler hid his reaction valiantly, but Harry couldn't help his heartbeat picking up. "I can prepare a bed," he offered quietly, spinning on his heel. 

"Excellent," Lady Malfoy brushed back her long, white hair. Tom's gaze fixated on the silvery strands. She began to stand. "If there is nothing else - " 

"Have you read today's  _Daily Prophet,_ Lady Malfoy?" 

At the tone of his voice, the woman froze, the bottom of her dress swaying. Above them, the glass chandelier creaked ominously. The lounge was one of the bigger rooms, with several cushioned couches and a limestone fireplace. Crown-molding on the peach-colored walls depicted harps and baby angels, a romantic aura that did not meld with the sudden tension. 

"I don't understand how Lucius can endorse it. I . . . I typically avoid reading that rag." 

"The rest of London does not return that sentiment," from the inside of his snow-drenched coat, Tom removed a newspaper. "Thankfully for your reputation, Rita Skeeter has described your husband as 'charitable, good-hearted and trusting.'" The woman began to relax, and Tom bit back a smirk. "It was, however, revealed that your sister Andromeda and her husband were struck down by tuberculosis some years ago." 

She raised a pale, well-manicured hand to cover her mouth. Tom continued without pause. "And while Remus Lupin was under your employment, he hired their daughter, Nymphadora . . . your own niece."  

Icy-blue eyes pinched shut. "I didn't know," she whispered, insistent. 

"Didn't know _what_? That your sister was dead? That you were paying her only daughter a pauper's pittance, and bidding her to scrub your toilets?" 

"No," she shook her head. "I didn't even know she _had_ a daughter. I haven't thought of Andy in years, not since she was disowned for bedding that - that stable boy. Mother and father told me that she ran away with him, and I was too young to question it." 

"And how long ago was that?" 

"About - About nineteen years ago." The lady covered her face in realization, releasing a soft sob. "Andy was pregnant, wasn't she? Oh, goodness." Her shock, Tom noted, was genuine. Unwinding the handkerchief from his ice bundle, mostly melted, he handed it to her. She dabbed delicately at her makeup. "If I'd known Nymphadora was family, I would've protected her," she said earnestly. "I would've provided for her, and she wouldn't have fallen for the butler." 

"Do you believe Remus killed her?" 

Narcissa clenched the handkerchief, nails biting into her palm. "I . . . I trusted Remus. He was diligent and loyal, and I know he cared for the younger staff like a father would. Lucius fired him, against my better judgement, and we've regretted it ever since. Harry makes a fine replacement," she assured him. "But he's just a boy, younger than Draco. I don't know him well, and I don't know what poor Harry and Nymphadora went through before us, before the auction, but I thought they were at least  _safe_ here. Now, I can't even trust my own instincts," she scowled. "I want to trust that Remus would never have hurt her. But he's failed us before. And we failed him. I . . . I failed _her._ " 

Tilting his head, Tom considered the woman before him. For a frigid-seeming, sheltered woman, she was uncharacteristically in-touch with her own emotions. "You couldn't have known," he consoled her quietly. "She didn't  _want_ you to know. Nymphadora dyed her hair black and hid behind her servile status; I doubt she would've accepted your help, even if you  _did_ know." 

She gave a watery smile. "Stubborn, just like my sister." Narcissa shook her head. "I wish I'd known Nymphadora." 

"You  _did._ And in the end, she was loyal to your family. She was loyal to the people who took her in, who gave her a roof over her head and a purpose in life. You didn't fail her." Tom lifted a hand to cover his chin, where a dark bruise was forming.

"For you, my lady, I promise to find her killer. Even if it kills _me_." 

* * *

"I met Remus Lupin today." Tom watched Harry fix the bed-sheets. The servant was clearly tired, his movements unsure, his hair falling out of it's ribbon in dark curls. The butler's quarters were in the basement, right beside the kitchen. The hallway outside was narrow and dark, illuminated only by Harry's gas lantern. "The Malfoy's previous butler." 

The light flickered as Harry laid out a wool blanket, his features pale and sharp, eyes nearly glasz. Harry showed no visible reaction to the mention of the former butler.

"I'm aware you knew him quite well," Tom pressed on.  

Haltingly, Harry nodded. "I wish you had met him a few years ago," he whispered. "He was . . . like a father to me." 

"He hit you," Tom felt the need to point out. "That is what he told me."

"Lightly," Harry corrected. "And he was particularly frustrated that evening. I was in his way." 

"He was drunk, and a _fool_ to take it out on you." 

Harry's features contorted. He tossed down a pillow. "He wasn't a fool! He was the smartest, kindest man I knew. And I've been hit far worse." Tom arched a perfect brow and slowly began to shed his clothes, revealing a toned chest and strong arms. Harry swallowed tightly, tearing his eyes away. "My outburst was uncalled for. I apologize," he changed the subject. "I placed your valise in the bathroom." 

"No, do continue." Shirtless, Tom entered the small restroom, the tile perfectly clean, but the mirror cracked. A small comb was placed beside the sink, black hairlets tangled in the teeth. Tom pinched a curl and placed it carefully between the pages of his notebook. "How long have you been employed here?" he asked, briskly removing his stockings and undergarments. Over his head, he threw on his nightgown.  

"Since I was thirteen," Harry's soft voice traveled.  "Before then, I lived with my Aunt's family. She was . . . like Lady Narcissa in stature, but had quite the backhand," Harry admitted. "I won't even mention my Uncle and his belt." He shook his head. "Yes, the Malfoys have been good to me, but I'm leaving when I turn eighteen in July. Then . . . I can be free." 

"Free?" Tom echoed, fixing his hair in the mirror. The gel had long since worn away, leaving a brown curl to fall across his forehead. 

Harry sighed. "I've begun to fear this place. I doubt I'll sleep a wink tonight. Dora died here - and I can't help but wonder if I'll be next." 

His bare feet padding on the hardwood, Tom reentered the quarters. Harry was perched at the end of his bed, cradling the candle in his small, pale hands. A second cot had been set up for Tom, the warmest blanket and the fluffiest pillow provided for him. All Harry had was a thin fleece blanket. 

Tom felt his heart seize. Harry continued talking. Somehow, the darkness of the night seemed to awaken him; he talked, as though fearing the silence. "Dora used to tell me that knights in shining armor didn't exist" he laughed. "The only person I can rely on, in the end, is myself. But she believed so _fully_ in Remus, was certain their love was true, even though he was a bitter alcoholic and she was barely more than a child, herself." His voice tapered off. "I suppose that's what love does. Makes hypocrites and fools of us all. She couldn't even save herself in the end." 

"Do you believe you can be saved?" Tom asked, sitting beside Harry on the weak bed-springs.

Harry's jaw was set, trembling ever-so slightly. "Well. Depends on your definition of 'saved'. I'll complete my contact here, and find a job. Perhaps I'll receive an inheritance. Or I'll join the British Army. That's how my father died. He was a soldier, my mother a nurse. There was . . . dissension amongst the ranks, I was told. He died trying to protect my mother, who was pregnant with me."  _How quaint. A hero._ "She died in child birth, of a broken heart, they say." He grimaced. 

Tom battled a similar scowl, forcing is expression into one of understanding. "My own father was a Lord - with a lesser title than Malfoy's, but he was just as arrogant. I never really knew him," he admitted. "But he abandoned my mother when she was pregnant, and I was left at an orphanage for eighteen years, until I 'saved myself'," he quoted with a smirk. After a moment, the smile fell. "It was . . . a rather lonely existence." 

"What made you become a detective?" Harry sat up, green eyes curious. He teased. "Was it Sherlock Holmes?" 

The older boy laughed. "Not quite. My father was a detective, and - even though he's dead - I wanted to show him that I was _worthy._ That I could be successful, and better at his job than he ever was. I don't scare easily, and while I'm not proficient at comforting the distraught . . . it just feels  _right,_ somehow." 

Harry watched him, envious of the contentment on Tom's usually stony features. In the dim light, Tom appeared younger, softer, more approachable. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. "I . . . I want to tell you somethi - " 

A shower of dust fell with a long  _creak_ of floorboards above them.  

"Who would be awake at this time?" Tom coughed, staring upwards. The soft patter of tentative footfalls could be heard, almost ghost-like in the night. "I suppose you weren't lying about being able to hear footsteps." 

"I . . . I only hear them every so often," Harry admitted. "The house is usually very quiet. Perhaps one of the girls has had a nightmare." 

Tom narrowed his eyes. "Or the murderer is striking again," he hissed. "You are a very poor houseman, you realize? You could have very well heard the murderer last night, but you dismissed the theory as soon as Missus McGonagall mentioned it." 

Harry flinched. 

"Who are you protecting?" Tom violently grabbed the lantern from him, a droplet of hot wax stinging Harry's skin. "Well?" he insisted, the direct candlelight making him simultaneously more handsome and more intimidating than ever. Harry, spellbound, was unable to speak.

"Fine. If you won't tell me, I will find out myself." Throwing the blanket around his shoulders, Tom left Harry in the dark. 

The butler shivered to himself, and waited no more than a minute, utterly terrified, before following after in a hurry. 

The servants quarters never seemed so large, so fathomless during the day. But Harry knew the house like the back of his hand, and followed the walls to a set of stairs. "Mister Riddle," he whispered, lifting a hand to the banister. "Tom, please." He crept up the steps, his heavy breathing near deafening in the silence.

A flash of white, and his eyes darted towards the east wing, near Lucius' office and the dining hall. 

"T - Tom?" he murmured, heart beating a heavy tattoo against his rib cage. He felt he was in a nightmare, surrounded by darkness and the ghost of a dead girl.

A figure stood, back pressed against a wall, hand clenched to her chest. She was shrouded in darkness, but Harry thought he recognized the feminine shape and dark hair. 

"D - Dora?" Harry asked, unable to believe his eyes. The ethereal being gasped, and disappeared behind a wall in a flutter of black hair and white skirts. "Dora!" He made to chase after her, but found himself tripping over the carpet. He landed with a thud, gasping out in shock and grief. Harry was crying, the tears dribbling onto his hands. "I'm sorry," he croaked. "I'm so sorry." 

"Harry?" Tom's smooth voice rang through the wing. "I'm in Lucius' office. I - I found something." 

Trembling from head to toe, Harry wiped his cheeks and followed the wall until his fingers touched fabric. Pushing aside the curtain, he was bathed in light. The fireplace was slowly burning, embers crackling red and gold. Tom was on his hands and knees, jabbing the coals with a poker. The lantern was discarded beside him. His face was grim.  

"I s - saw her," Harry whispered, jerking forward. "I saw Nymphadora." 

Tom peered up at Harry, registering his tear-stained cheeks and disheveled bedclothes. "Did you?" he said idly, removing the iron-hot poker from the fire. "It seems the dead were quite busy tonight." 

Dangling from the iron rod's tip was a silver ring, warped and melted from the heat. 

Nymphadora's engagement ring.

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._ **


	5. Widow's Weed

_**Blind Man's Bluff** _

**TanninTele**

* * *

  _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

_**IV:** _

_He wears widow's weed_

_his future is bleak._

_If only he could forget_

_all the ways he was weak._

* * *

  **Malfoy Manor**

* * *

"They're  _mocking_ us!" Lady Malfoy shrieked, pacing the breakfast room. Her gown today was blood red, it's color almost matching her in fury and vibrancy. All three blondes had gathered together, drawn and less-than-poised from a lack of proper sleep. "Calm down, mother," Draco spoke tiredly, picking at a plate of breakfast pastries. They had long since gone cold - a waste, really - but the young Malfoy didn't have much an appetite after a  _girl_ had been  _murdered_ in his own home. He sent a glare at Tom. "Detective Riddle has everything under control, doesn't he?" 

Thomas stood by the window, watching the cast-iron gates for any peculiar activity. 

There weren't any footsteps in the snow, not that he expected any. 

"The police here have done  _nothing_  besides take the body away," Lucius spoke to himself, furious. "They've been useless to us." The snow was simply too thick for Officer Scrimgeour to inspect the scene; leaving Tom alone with three, distraught aristocrats and a house filled with suspects. Lucius turned to Tom. "Have you learned  _anything_  that could help?”

Tom stroked the spine of his notebook, tucked beneath his arm. “Whomever this  _person_  was had an intimate relationship with Nymphadora, and access to your office. It could be anyone here," he said somberly.

"I thought my staff were absolved from suspicion?" Lucius demanded. "You interviewed them, yes?" 

"I did. They all had solid alibis that night - one another."  _Except for Harry. But I was_ his  _alibi_ _last night._

The Malfoy patriarch ran a hand across his face, pointed features twisted with exhaustion. "Are you saying there is a murderer in my house, at this very moment?" 

Draco glanced up, fear entering his usually bored eyes. 

"Not quite," Tom said, after a moment. "I believe I've mentioned before, but the silver thief and the murderer are not necessarily the same person. Whoever stole the ring is under this roof, yes - " he paused. "They are likely not dangerous." 

" _'Likely',_ " Draco spat. " _'Not necessarily'_. Do you know anything definitely,  _Detective?_ Am I safe in my own home?"

_Not if I get to you first, you little brat._

"Absolutely," Tom gave a falsely reassuring smile. "You're done with those pastries, aren't you? Let me bring your plate down to the kitchen . . . while you tell your parents about your little problem with  _graduation._ That ought to offer a nice, long distraction." 

The boy's eyes went wide with horror. 

"What?" Narcissa spat, shifting from flustered matriarch to ice queen in an instant. "You're not  _graduating?"_

Resisting vindictive laughter, Tom took their empty plates, balancing them carefully atop one another. He followed the smell of food cooking into the basement, right across from Harry's quarters. 

The kitchen was large and white-tiled. A massive oven was stationed against the back wall, surrounded by counter space, a rack for pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. Minerva was kneading a ball of dough, talking softly as Myrtle cried over a bowl of peeled potatoes. 

Tom set the plates into the sink with a clatter. The two women looked up.

Minerva was scowling, thin lips twisted angrily, while Myrtle guiltily wrung a napkin in her hands. Tom placed his hands in his pockets, staring the young girl down. "I think you know why I'm here, Myrtle," he spoke softly, yet firmly. 

Minerva turned around wildly, brandishing the rolling pin at him. "She's a good girl, just like Dora was," she warned him. "No matter what Myrtle has done, there are  _far_ worse things."

Myrtle covered her face with a small, nearly inaudible keen. “No - no, he’s right. I am guilty. Not of murder - but -”

Tom moved to sit across from her, pulling out a stool. “You were the thief.”

“Yes - yes, I am. I was." 

She glanced at Minerva, uncomfortable. 

"Elaborate," Tom insisted.

"I - it started with little things, cuff-links, earrings, here and there. Then the silvers. I'm not paid very well here, and they just have so  _much_ ,” she wiped her eyes with the napkin. “I didn't think they'd notice anything missing. I never meant to cause such trouble."

“Oh, Myrtle." Minerva sighed. Her hands twitched, clearly wanting to comfort the girl. 

“Walk me through that night." From his pocket, he removed the mottled engagement ring. It still gleamed silver, but not as shiny as Myrtle's tears. "How did you get this ring?”

Slowly, Myrtle reached a hand out, asking to hold it. Tom's brows drew, but he dropped it into her palm. 

“I - I found her first," Myrtle said quietly, running her fingers over the rim. "I went to the vault in the middle of the night to - to steal, and when it opened, she just . . . fell onto me." Her throat bobbed, as if holding back bile. "The blood was still wet.  I - I was terrified, I wanted to scream for help, but I couldn’t tell  _anyone_  that I’d seen her, or they would know  _I_  was the thief," she sniffed, voice wrecked. "I laid her down gently, because she was just  _stuffed_  in there, carelessly. She didn't deserve that."

"She deserved having her ring stolen?" Tom arched a brow. 

"In the candlelight . . . it just glinted so prettily. I couldn't help myself. But, I swear, I wouldn’t hurt her - I can't think of anyone who  _would_.” Her earnest expression held strong, before falling. "Oh." 

“Continue, please.”

“We share a bedroom, you understand. It’s very hard to keep secrets in such small quarters. Sometimes, while she changed into her bed-clothes, I saw fresh bruises on her arms. She told me it was nothing . . . and I believed her. Her fiancé - he was always so volatile. He was a butler here, did you know?  We weren't acquainted long. Soon after I was hired, Lord Malfoy dismissed him for drinking on the job. Remus seemed kind, generous, helpful . . . but I saw him hit Harry. Harry was only trying to help him sort the butler's pantry, but Remus just swung around - ” Myrtle cut herself off. "Harry said it was nothing, and I believed him. But if Remus could hurt  _him . . ._ I shudder to think what he might've done to Dora." With a disgusted look, she returned the ring. "Here. I don't want to look at it anymore." 

Minerva, making a faint crooning noise, came around to stroke Myrtle's dark hair. It left streaks of flour in her hair, but neither seemed to care. "Harry saw you last night," Tom said, in realization. "It was  _you,_ not the ghost of Nymphadora, who tried to dispose of the ring." 

Myrtle drew in on herself. "I didn't mean to scare him. Harry - he was crying, and kept calling for Dora. He was  _apologizing,_ and I couldn't do anything. I just ran." 

"Harry  _knew,"_ Tom realized, voice hushed. Harry's known  _everything._ From the murder, to Myrtle's theft. It was Myrtle's footsteps they'd heard last night - the walls were so thin, they could hear  _everything._ "He's been . . . protecting you. All of you," he sent a glance to Myrtle and Minerva. "How close were Lupin and Harry?" 

"V - very," Minerva said. "Since Remus bought him at the auction block, they've been like father and son." 

Tom felt his stomach drop. "It seems Myrtle isn't the only one keeping secrets around here." 

The dark haired girl looked up quickly, eyes bloodshot and dripping. "Don't. Don't blame Harry. He's - he was only trying to help us. We're the only family he's ever known, and - " she straightened her back, shaking off Minerva's hand. "I'm the one to blame for stealing. I . . . I was greedy and selfish, and thought there wouldn't be any consequences. I'm just as guilty as Dora's killer is." 

Tom stared down at the engagement ring. “Is there anything more you can tell me? Even the smallest detail would help.”

“W - well, the body. Her corpse,” Myrtle gained a disgusted mien. “She smelt strange- like peppermint and brandy.”

“Odd combination.”

“Peppermint tea is a hangover cure,” Minerva offered quietly. “I found it spilled across the floor yesterday morning - remember, I said the kitchen was a mess? I thought it odd, as Draco only takes chamomile at bedtime. Does that help?”

A soft breath of sudden realization drifted past Tom's lips. “ _Oh_. It does.” 

* * *

_**St. Jerome's Cemetery** _

* * *

The quill feather glided sensuously down his chin. "Detective Thomas Riddle," the woman purred. "I've heard about you." 

Tom leaned back, trying to avoid the pungent scent of her floral perfume. "Rita Skeeter, I presume," he said coolly. "I suppose Ludo Bagman invited you here."

"I won't reveal my sources," She shrugged an elegant shoulder. Red lips pulled into - what she thought was - an enticing smile. "Shield laws, you understand." 

He wrapped his winter coat tighter, resisting a shiver from the icy chill. 

St. Jerome's Cemetery was a potter's field, a burial ground for the poor and servile. Their gravestones were plentiful, most unnamed. Dirty, dry weeds jutted out from under the blanket of snow. Distantly, a small, black-clothed crowd had gathered to watch Nymphadora Tonks be lowered into the ground. Tom could see Myrtle, Minerva and Harry, huddled together for warmth and comfort. In Harry's hands was a bouquet of lilies.

Standing apart from the rest, her flaxen hair hidden by a warm Cossack hat, was Narcissa Malfoy. She watched the proceedings with rapidly blinking eyes, her tears freezing on high cheekbones. "It appears Lady Malfoy has deigned herself to join us common folk," Rita spoke wryly, looking down to adjust her dark blue cowl, tastelessly lined with faux fur. From afar, it would appear black, but the blatant disrespect appalled Tom.

"She's in mourning," he said blandly. "And is very likely to sue your entire news outlet if you take a single unflattering picture of her." 

Rita slowly lowered her camera. Without even looking, he could  _sense_ her pout. "How long do you expect this to last? I have an interview at City Hall in an hour," she asked. 

 _"'Interview',"_ Tom murmured. The woman was more likely to sneak into an assembly meeting and hide beneath a desk than arrange a genuine interview. "Out of respect to the dead, Officer Scrimgeour and Deputy Bagman won't be appearing until the end of the ceremony. But the entire block has been barricaded in case Lupin tries to flee." 

Rita tsked lightly. "Look at him. He's three sheets to the wind. I doubt he'd make it to his car." 

Lupin had turned to liquid courage to keep warm; he was slouched over Nymphadora's casket, leaning heavily on the shovel as a priest read their vigil. A few minutes passed, and Remus began tossing dirt onto the grave. When he finished, Harry gently pried the shovel from Lupin's hands, murmuring something encouraging. Narcissa looked hard-pressed to join in, but lingered behind, unsure of herself. Tom was almost proud when Harry offered her the shovel. 

With a soft  _click_ of her camera, Rita captured the demure matriarch willingly handle a rusted gardening tool. With tears in her eyes, Narcissa sent a shower of dirt raining over Dora's plain, resin coffin.

Tom clicked his pocket-watch shut. "It's time." 

Offering an elbow to the lady, he lead Rita down the hill. 

Remus glanced up as they arrived, frowning wearily at the reporter. "Skeeter," he rasped. "Detective Riddle. Have you come to pay your respects?" 

"Yes." Tom said, releasing Rita's arm. "I've also come to return something of Miss Tonks'." He stepped up to the grave.  _Nymphadora Tonks,_ it read.  _Beloved friend, daughter and lover._ Running a finger down the stone, Tom released his fist and set her ring onto the upturned dirt - just beside Harry's lilies. 

Behind him, Lupin's breath caught. "You found the thief?" 

"Indeed," Tom stood from his crouch, brushing his knees. "And the murderer, too." 

Officer Scrimgeour snapped the handcuffs around Lupin's wrists. The man and his deputy had crept out from behind a crumbling mausoleum. Their blue uniforms stuck out amongst the congregation.

Myrtle and Minerva held each other tightly, sharing a handkerchief as they watched Remus shout and struggle. "Officers! I swear to you, I did  _nothing -_ I'm innocent - Harry, tell them," he pleaded. Harry, green eyes hooded, turned toward Tom. 

The detective smiled. "I'm afraid you're _quite_ guilty, Mister Lupin. A long, drawling monologue seems a bit cliché, but this is more for Missus Skeeter's benefit than yours." He nodded toward the reporter. She was gleefully scrawling notes onto a leather-bound notebook. " _You_ killed Nymphadora Tonks."

The congregation gasped.

"You played the part of a distraught, grieving fiancé quite convincingly. I don't doubt you're distraught," he assured the enraged man. "But with guilt, rather with grief. Shall we begin with the ring?" Tom asked, gesturing toward the gravestone. “You knew that when the body was found, a missing ring would immediately implicate you. This explains your genuine surprise when you learned it had been stolen. But it wasn't all  _that_ surprising, was it? Miss Tonks had told you about the Malfoy's problem with thieves, and you hoped that the thief would be blamed for her death." 

Myrtle ducked her head into the curve of Minerva's neck, biting back tears. 

"That's - that's outrageous," Remus spluttered. "I would never - "

"Sober, you might not have killed her," Tom agreed. "But you've been a raging alcoholic for some years now. For drinking on the job, Lord Malfoy fired you, but you've never been able to stop returning to the Manor. As bitter as you were, it was your  _home_.  

"Some nights, while inebriated, you would come back to reminisce. You would watch the house from afar, daring to inch closer, day by day. You were caught once, by Harry, who chased you down the hill. He didn't recognize you, so you kept returning, learning how to _slip_ past the security measures." Remus softly keened, his tears scalding and ugly. "But you were caught _again_ , by Nymphadora, creeping by the coal delivery entrance. She invited you in, so _terribly_ concerned - " Tom mocked. "And tried to sober you up with peppermint tea. Perhaps she gave you a well-meaning lecture, but you . . . _volatile_ in your inebriated state, struck her from behind. She collapsed, hitting her head against the stove, giving her burns across her pale forehead."

Tom's voice had reached a deep, resounding pitch, echoing through the cemetery. He softened himself. 

"She didn’t awaken, and you _panicked_. With intimate knowledge of the mansion’s layout, you knew how to access the silver vault. You shoved her inside, quickly, carelessly, and disappeared through another exit." Tom tilted his head. "That's not the least of it. After our rendezvous at the police station, you also attempted vehicular manslaughter by driving my taxi off the road. Am I wrong?" 

"You can't prove anything," Lupin whispered, the sound wretched. "You  _can't."_

"I don't have to," Tom said sympathetically. He gestured to Harry. "We have an eyewitness. You were a butler yourself, Remus. They truly do know  _everything."_

Betrayed, bloodshot eyes fixated on Harry. The boy was valiantly stony-faced, his lithe body trembling from head to toe.  _"Harry - "_ Remus whimpered. He jerked in his handcuffs.  _"Son - "_

Harry gasped out a sob. He turned away, wiping his cheeks with a wool glove. 

"Oh, please," Tom rolled his eyes. " _Do_ hurry. I have a train to catch." 

"You do not have to say anything," Scrimgeour drawled, tugging Remus toward the street. The officer went through his duties in a dull, mechanical way. "But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence . . . " 

Ludo lingered behind to give Rita a small grin. The woman bit her lip, giggling at him. "Good work, Riddle," Ludo said, tearing his gaze away. He clapped Tom on the shoulder in camaraderie. "Olive Hornby's been asking about you. She'll be pleased to know you've solved it."

"I did solve it, didn't I?" Tom tipped his head, a smug grin growing on his lips. 

He watched as Remus was shoved into the back of a police car, hearing Rita's camera snap as the murderer was taken away. 

* * *

_Several Hours Prior_

**Malfoy Manor**

* * *

"Why are you packing?" 

Tom, fresh from the kitchen, stopped at the door-frame to the butler's quarters. Harry was dressed more casual than usual, his day clothes loose and frayed. His fringe dangled around his forehead, a braid tickling the back of his neck. His hands trembled as he shoved an old pair of stockings into a valise. He kept his voice quiet, defensive. "I'm being fired, aren't I? You're smart. You put it all together, I knew you would." 

"I haven't solved everything." Tom tipped his head, crossing his arms. "Myrtle's just admitted to being the thief; I have no need to implicate you. In four months, you'll be eighteen. Just finish out the contract. Say your goodbyes. And in July, you'll have a clean slate." 

Harry let out an almost relieved noise. He dropped the coat he was folding, collapsing onto his cot. "Oh, thank God," he breathed, covering his face. He peeked through his fingers, giving him a small smile. "As much as freedom appeals to me, this wasn't how I wanted to go. I suppose after you take care of Remus, you'll be leaving?" 

"Yes," Tom paused. He stepped into the room, tapping his fingers against Harry's desk. "I'll be taking Myrtle with. She's grown on me." 

Harry laughed, the sound jubilant and watery. "Just keep her from shiny things." Scrubbing at his face, he sat straighter, buttoning his overcoat. "She'll do better. I know she will. This whole experience has put the fear of God in her." 

Harry stood to return his clothing to their proper place. 

The detective stepped forward, head tilted. "Why did you protect them?" The question had been on the tip of his tongue for hours, days, just waiting for the moment for everything to  _click._

Harry sucked in a sharp breath. He braced himself on his wardrobe, fingers tightening around the wood rim.

"I have to tell you something," he spoke softly. "I'm sure you've already figured it all out. That night, when Dora died, I _saw_ him."

"Lupin?" 

"Y - yes. I heard someone coming down the stairs, and enter the kitchen. I don't sleep well normally, I'm always on alert - it's apart of the job description, you know?" Harry shuddered. "I'd been hearing Myrtle wandering in the night for _months_ , but I knew she needed the money, so I didn't say anything. I didn't _do_ anything. But when I heard a  _crack_ in the middle of the night, like a bolt of lightning or the shattering of a bone, and I went to go see if everything was alright."

He bit his lip, drawing in a breath. "I saw Remus cradling her body. He was so scared. He was terrified. He kept asking her,  _desperately,_ to wake up. He called her 'Dora', 'love, 'Nymphadora' - knowing, if she was alive, she would scold him for calling that." He shook his head. "I know Remus would never hurt any of us on purpose - especially not Dora. . . He's just so  _angry_ at the world, and he's been fighting it for _so long_ , tamping it down beneath brandy and a mild manner. I thought once he was fired, he would realize that he was hurting the people around him. That he would sober up. But he just . .  . let the outside reflect the madness within." 

"And it destroyed him." Tom said quietly. 

Harry moved away from the cabinet, and sat tentatively onto his mattress. He closed his eyes, as though resting. "I - I went back to sleep, and pretended it was all a dream. A nightmare. An  _illusion_. I pretended everything was  _normal,_ that I had  _control_ . . . but I've only been fooling myself. Remus and Minerva, Dora, and even Myrtle - they're the only family I've ever had. You understand, don't you? I had to do it." 

Tom didn't understand. But he could see the anguish in Harry's verdant eyes, his long lashes wet with tears, his curls frayed and falling down to frame his gaunt cheeks. The boy was a beautiful disaster. 

The detective, placing a hand on Harry's knee, smiled.

"I understand," he lied. He brushed his fingers against Harry's knee, intimate and soothing. "Do you know where I can find him?" 

Harry was silent, for a moment, before moving toward his desk. He scrawled out an address on the back of a calling card. "The funeral's today, at St. Jerome's," he murmured, thrusting it toward Tom. Their fingers grazed, and green eyes rose to meet Tom's.

"Just . . . wait until the end of the service, yeah? Dora deserves at least that." 

* * *

_**To be continued . . .** _  


	6. Epilogue

_**Blind Man's Bluff** _

**TanninTele**

* * *

  _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

_**Epilogue** _

* * *

  _Four Months Later_

**Riddle House**

* * *

The snow had long since melted, giving way to flower buds and cicadas. 

Summer in Little Hangleton was warm and dry, the heat conducive to crime and murder. In the next town over, the body of little boy had been found in a well. He'd been discovered when a farmer hoisted up a bucket filled with blood. The initial cause of death was the boy falling head-first into the well and drowning; something, however, about the boy's older brother irked Tom.

It wasn't just that Cormac McLaggen liked to torture animals, or the sadistic gleam to his eyes - he was also in love with his mother, an incestuous twist that Tom had not expected. Little Hangleton was the oddest place. 

The people of Hangleton had no trouble replacing, in their minds, the cantankerous, hermetic Thomas Riddle Senior with a younger, handsomer version. Tom had proven his worth as an investigator time and time again. With the commission from the Malfoy case, he was able to hire a small staff and transform the first floor of his father's decrepit manor into a proper office. 

Olive Hornby sat in the receiving room behind a large, oak desk. It was quiet space for her to entertain guests, transcribe documents and - in her free time - write the first of many crime novels, based off her own experience as  _A Silent Witness._ Olive was glad to be away from the DLE, and was paid far better under Tom than under Officer Scrimgeour. It also didn't hurt that she'd fallen in love with Tom's maid. 

Tom had gone through another three notebooks since his first case; Olive had taught him shorthand, allowing his notes to be concise, ciphered, and safe, especially as Myrtle could be quite nosy. True to his word, Tom kept her far away from his vault.

In all seriousness, Myrtle was a fine maid, and while prone to the occasional crying fit, she fit well with the demure and clever secretary. The two women shared the servant's quarters and kept their relations quiet, so Tom was able to turn a blind eye.

The twenty-one year old had been approached by countless widows, enchanted by his aristocratic features and charisma. Tom had courted a woman named Bellatrix for a month or so, until he discovered she had murdered her late husband and brother-in-law. She'd slowly poisoned them with belladonna, and had finally been caught tipping a vial of powder into Tom's nightly tea. He had to discreetly dispose of the woman, burying her bloodied, darkly-curled, unattached head in the backyard. Right next to his bitch of a step-mother. 

If Tom now refused to drink tea served by  _anyone_  but his maid, that was him simply being cautious. 

Using his contacts in the DLE (Ludo Bagman, while annoying, had become a monthly guest at Riddle Manor), Tom had each client carefully screened before he agreed to work for them. As such, he was genuinely bewildered when Olive knocked on his office door with a quiet pronouncement. 

"You have an appointment," she said, smoothing her modest fuchsia sundress. The silk was imported from China, and Tom knew Olive appreciated the divergence from her old, tawdry grey uniform. 

Tom barely glanced up from his paperwork. He dipped one of his numerous pens into an inkwell, and signed his paper with a flourish. 

_Det. Thomas Riddle of Little Hangleton,_

_Private Investigator._

He refused to bother with 'Junior'. Tom swore, if he ever had a son, he'd damn the tradition and name him something distinguished, like  _D_ _elphinus._ Myrtle and Olive had laughed uproariously at this idea. 

Olive cleared her throat, arching a fine brow at him. Tom blew on the parchment. "I don't have any appointments until three o'clock today. Is Miss Brown early? I told her, a dead rabbit is  _not_ my highest priority - " 

"No, no," Olive resisted a smile, lips pressed tightly together. "An old friend has come to visit." 

That was preposterous. Tom didn't  _have_ friends. Frowning, he handed the letter to Olive, standing with a yawn from his desk. "Send that to Professor Dumbledore at Oxford." 

"It's quite . . . long," she stared at the long roll of paper, the bottom barely brushing the tips of her shoes. She proofread the first paragraph, before giving up. Tom's handwriting was uncharacteristically difficult to read. 

"Yes. I've filled it with platitudes and vapid tangents that Albus, ever the gentleman, will feel obligated to decipher." He grinned vindictively. "I do so love to inconvenience the man. Perhaps you can suggest to the mail man that he 'lose track' of this particular letter for a week or three." 

"Wasn't Albus' message urgent?" Olive asked him, appalled. 

Tom tipped his head, sidling past her. "Our definitions of 'urgent' greatly differ."

'Urgent', to the old professor might range from life-or-death to a broken tea cup. The man was a former Major for the British Army, but a few too many bayonets to the head had Albus preferring a battle of wits over hand-to-hand combat. Dumbledore had been one of the first to truly suspect Tom's sudden rise in fame. He invited Tom to Oxford for a weekend, and the two engaged in an unerringly polite banter. Albus had likely found it enlightening, but Tom - Tom  _despised_ the man. 

Despite their mutual dislike, there was also a smidgen of mutual respect. Tom borrowed the man's imagination on particularly convoluted cases, and Albus - above all, a teacher - genuinely enjoyed imparting knowledge onto the young and adept. 

Tom liked to think himself as highly intelligent, but he still fell speechless as he stepped into the receiving room, and found a familiar, green-eyed boy  _\- young man -_   sitting on his coach. 

"Tom!" Myrtle was sitting beside their guest, teary-eyed and beaming. "Harry's come to visit!" she squeaked, stating the obvious. 

"Detective Riddle," Harry breathed. "It's . . . it's good to see you." 

Tom swallowed tightly, blinking out of his stupor. "Y - you as well. What are you doing here?" The detective took Myrtle's place on the coach. She moved to stand beside Olive, fingers entwined, as they watched the men fondly. 

Harry sheepishly removed a folded, well-read parchment from his vest pocket. His fashion was remarkably improved, the eighteen-year old dressed in a patterned, dark-green fabric that matched his eyes. He had gotten a hair-cut, his curls artfully coiffed, the absence of his fringe revealing a small scar on his forehead. He wore new spectacles, the lenses enlarging his eyes to epic proportions. Tom's heart fluttered with every bat of those dark lashes. 

"I'm actually here because I need your expertise," Harry said, voice light. He unfolded the paper, revealing a grimy and tear-stained letter, written in thin, tired handwriting. "When I turned eighteen, this letter found me. It's from a man named Sirius Black. He . . . he says he's my godfather." 

Tom wanted to tear the distraction away and monopolize all of Harry's attention. "That's nice, isn't it? You still have some family." 

"I . . . I suppose," Harry said dubiously. His finger wrinkled the letter, eyes downcast. "He says he was in the British Army with my father. But he's in jail, for 'treason of the highest order'. Murder of a fellow comrade. Fourteen of them, to be exact. Including my father." 

He peered up at Tom, his jaw set in that determined expression Tom knew all-to-well. "That's why I'm here. I want to know how my parents  _truly_ died." 

Blue eyes darted across Harry's features, as if memorizing him, exactly like this - in desperate need of Tom. 

Tom's smirk grew. He stuck out a hand, enclosing Harry's smaller one in his.

"I think I can help you with that." 

* * *

**_The End_ **


End file.
